


Elementary, My Dear Sherlock

by Eltuine



Category: Elementary (TV), Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Case Fic, Developing Relationship, F/M, M/M, Not Elementary Season 2 Compliant, Not Sherlock Series 3 Compliant, Parallel Universes, Science Fiction
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-09-01
Updated: 2014-04-02
Packaged: 2017-12-25 08:34:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 31,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/950990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eltuine/pseuds/Eltuine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Joan Watson wakes up in an unfamiliar house in an unfamiliar city, with an unfamiliar man staring at her, claiming to be Sherlock Holmes. Meanwhile, on the other side of the ocean, John Watson finds himself in a similar situation. When each Watson tries to return home, however, difficulties arise. How will both Sherlocks deal with the removal of their respective Watsons, and how will each Watson get back to where they belong?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> One night, I had a thought of how interesting it would be if Joan and John got switched. Then that thought wouldn't go away, so here are the results. All mistakes are my own, unbeta'd, unbritpicked. All characters belong to their respective creators and writers.
> 
> Update, Sept 2016: I have received so many lovely comments asking me to update this story. After a rather lengthy hiatus, I'm finally writing this again. It was all outlined before Sherlock season 3 and I haven't watched any of Elementary beyond the first episode of season 2, so it obviously won't match any new information from either show. Anyhow, there will indeed be an update in the near future! Sorry for the wait.

Joan Watson knew that something was wrong the moment that she woke up. 

There were several clues that tipped her off. One was the fact that she was not in her own bed, judging by how she seemed to be lying on a floor and staring up at a ceiling. Two was the smell of burning hair (not her own, thank god). Three was the pale, dark-haired man staring down at her with a look of puzzlement and interest on his face, and a smouldering clump of hair held by a pair of tongs in his hand.

“What are you doing in my flat?” The man asked, with a British accent. Joan tried to sit up, but quickly lay back down with a groan. Her head was pounding. “How did you get in here? You haven’t picked the lock, I’d have heard. Did John let you in? You don’t have any of his hairs on your shirt, and he wouldn’t let one of his dates sleep on the floor, so who are you?” Joan groaned, and sat up more slowly.

“Where am I?” she asked. The tall man (and he was tall. A solid ten inches taller than Joan herself, she figured) glared down at her.

“221B Baker Street. London. My kitchen floor.” Hold the phone.

“London? As in London, England?” The tall man rolled his eyes, and Joan was momentarily reminded of her own roommate.

“Yes, as in London, England. Why, where did you think you were? Have you been drugged? What’s the last thing you remember?” Joan’s brain did its very best to sort through the impossible situation and come up with answers. She remained on the floor, in case standing would lead to fainting. Thankfully, she appeared to be wearing her day clothes, and not her pyjamas.

“When I went to sleep last night, I was in New York, in the USA. I don’t know if I’ve been drugged, but my head hurts like a son of a bitch, and the last thing I remember is going to bed.” The tall man looked thoughtful for a moment, nodded, and then turned and yelled,

“JOHN! COME DOWNSTAIRS! THERE’S A WOMAN IN OUR FLAT AND I THINK SHE’S BEEN DRUGGED!” Joan started at the sudden noise (which did absolutely nothing good to her poor head) and pulled herself to her feet. The man was obviously waiting for someone to answer him, but there was no reply. "JOHN?"

"God, stop yelling!" Joan demanded, "Who's John?"

"My flatmate. He's a doctor. You are, too, but you obviously haven't practised recently."

"How... how can you possibly know that? Have you kidnapped me?" The man rolled his eyes.

"Please. Your hands give away your status as a doctor, your hair and shoes tell me that you haven't practised recently. Where the hell is John?" He pulled out a cell phone and began texting furiously. Joan rubbed her head, and sank down into a kitchen chair. Moments later, her own phone went off.

_Whr r u? Man n hse. Frm UK. Clms nme John Watson. Rltn of urs?_

She squeezed her eyes shut and tried to parse out meaning from Sherlock's ridiculous text speak. An idea dawned, but it was more than a little bit crazy. She had to ask anyway.

"Your roommate, is he named John _Watson?_ " The tall man looked at her with eerily pale eyes and nodded. "Well, _my_ roommate just texted me. Seems a British man by that name has somehow shown up in our house in New York." The man's eyebrows flew up.

"That's not possible. The shortest nonstop flight from Heathrow to New York is eight hours, not including time to get through both customs and security. I saw John less than six hours ago."

"Well, I went to sleep in New York less than six hours ago, if the time of my phone is right, yet here I am." The man looked irritated. His phone beeped at him, and he scowled at whatever he read there.

"This is absurd." He turned to Joan, "Is your name Joan? Joan Watson?" Joan nodded. The man made a noise of frustration. "Absolutely ridiculous. This is some sort of joke."

"What is?" Joan yelled, giving in to her own impatience.

"John claims to be in your house. He says that the man there is calling himself Sherlock Holmes."

"That would be because that's his name."

"No." 

Joan was starting to think that she should probably get away from the crazy man whose apartment she had somehow ended up in. “No, what?"

"No, he's not Sherlock Holmes. He can't be."

"...because?!"

"Because _I_ am Sherlock Holmes!" Yup, definitely crazy.

-x-X-x-

John was very confused. One moment, he'd been sitting in his room, reading a book, and the next he'd opened his eyes with a terrible headache, and no idea where he was. And now the man whose house he was in was telling him that he was in New York, in the home of Sherlock Holmes and Joan Watson.

"I don't mean to be rude, seeing as I've somehow ended up in your home, but that is entirely too strange to be possible. Two Sherlocks, both consulting detectives, and two Watsons, both doctors? That is just too much of a coincidence." The other man - the other Sherlock - nodded.

"I agree, it's not a coincidence at all. Have you ever heard of the parallel universe theory of quantum mechanics, Doctor Watson?" John nodded, slowly. He had. He had also thought of it as silly sci-fi nonsense. "Well, it would seem that, somehow, two Sherlocks and two Watsons have ended up in the same universe, but with each Watson with the wrong Holmes." John put his head in his hands. This was entirely too much.

"Oh god, I've finally cracked. He's put one too many unknown substance in my coffee and I've gone completely round the twist," John moaned. Other Sherlock looked almost... concerned. The very idea of Sherlock being concerned for him just made John even more positive that he had lost his mind.

"Your Sherlock drugs you without your consent?" He sounded... curious, but definitely less than impressed.

"Just the one time," John explained, "And it actually wasn't anything but normal sugar, not that he knew that. It's complicated." He couldn't believe that he was justifying Sherlock's actions in Baskerville. " _He's_ complicated. Mad, really, but in an endearing, want-to-punch-him-in-the-face sort of way." He should probably just stop talking. Sherlock - New York Sherlock - was squinting at him in a familiar sort of "working out every detail of your life" kind of way.

"Well, I should think the obvious solution would be to get the four of us together as soon as possible."

"Er, wouldn't it make more sense to just have your Watson and me get on planes, and return to our respective Holmes ...homes?"

"Oh, no, that won't do at all. I would very much like to meet this other Sherlock, and we still have to discover the 'whys' and 'hows' of you and Ms. Watson getting switched." 

John figured that this sounded fairly reasonable, and it would definitely be interesting to get all four of them together, if only for a bit of compare and contrast. Maybe Joan Watson would have some new tricks to add to his repertoire on The Care and Management of Sherlock Holmes. "Alright, so the two of us can catch a plane to London," John said. 

Sherlock froze. "Oh... yes, I suppose that... would make the most sense, seeing as three of us would be familiar with the country." He looked supremely uncomfortable.

"Everything okay?" John asked, confused by the man's sudden shift. Sherlock remained frozen for a moment, a bit of a deer-in-headlights expression on his face, and then seemed to snap out of it.

"Yes, yes, fine," he said, back to the same rather manic persona from moments earlier. He tossed John a mobile phone, quickly followed by a wallet. "You call and get us a pair of tickets, I'll pack some things for Watson and myself and find someone to look after Clyde." John was floored. A Sherlock who not only voluntarily paid for practical things, but who would pack for both himself and another person! And... Clyde?

"Who's Clyde, if you don't mind me asking?" He called after Sherlock as the other man sprinted up the stairs. He paused, and turned to flash John a smile over his shoulder.

"My tortoise." He turned away and continued to the upper floor.

Oh, of course. His tortoise.

John let out a huff, and then collapsed into a dilapidated old armchair to send Sherlock - his Sherlock - a text before calling any airlines.

_NYSH and I are getting a plane to London. Will you and Joan be okay for a while? She can have my bed if she needs. It's only 5AM her time. Leftover curry in the fridge. Try not to terrify her._

It was less than a minute before he received a text in reply.

_This is Joan. UKSH told me to pass his phone, despite it being right next to him, so I've taken it. Thank you for the offer of the bed, but I'll be okay. Look forward to meeting you. Your Sherlock is certainly a handful. JW_

John smiled. He had the feeling that he was going to like Joan Watson.

-x-X-x-

Sherlock did not like this Watson. Not one bit. She had taken his phone, refused to give a saliva sample for him to compare her DNA with John's, and now she was smiling and giggling while texting on _his_ mobile. That was just not on. He glared down into his microscope at the burnt hair samples from earlier. As he'd suspected, Mrs. Mulligan had _not_ been killed by her house fire; the burn pattern proved it. He reached out to grab his phone to tell Lestrade to arrest her son, then scowled when he remembered that it was being held hostage by the unpleasant American.

"Give me my mobile back," he demanded. Joan gave him a dark look.

"What's the magic word?"

"Give me my phone back, or I'll call Lestrade and tell him that you're a home invader and have you arrested."

"How will you call him without your phone?"

"I am more than capable of retrieving it from you. I am only refraining from doing so as John dislikes it when I use what he deems to be 'unnecessary violence'." Joan glared at him.

"I'm giving you your phone back, but not because you threatened me. I am more than capable of defending myself, should the need arise. Sherlock has been giving me lessons in self-defence. I am giving you your phone back because John has sent a text for you, and I am going to go find your bathroom." Sherlock returned a glare of his own, and snatched the proffered mobile out of her hand. She left, and, after a quick text to Lestrade about the Mulligan case, he read what John had sent. Below some inane prattle back and forth between the two Watsons was a lengthy message meant for him.

1/3 _Sherlock, don't be a prat to Joan. NYSH thinks it's some sort of parallel universe thing, so she's really me from a different dimension, so anything you do or say to her_

2/3 _will have consequences from me. Our flight is in two hours, and we're already almost at the airport. Try to hold off on being really unpleasant before I get there. Maybe_

3/3 _she can help you on the Mulligan case? NYSH says she's turning into a very competent detective in her own right. See you soon, don't burn down the flat._

Sherlock snorted. As if he would need help on the Mulligan case! Still, the parallel universe theory did sound very interesting, if a tad absurd... He grabbed his laptop and several of his more esoteric books on physics before getting comfortable on the sofa. Joan emerged from the loo moments later, and stood with her hands on her hips, surveying the sitting room.

“Well, I can say this much, you and my Sherlock both appear to have the same stance on housekeeping.” Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I wonder how else you’re like my Sherlock.” 

“We both used cocaine and some form of opiates,” he answered frankly. To her credit, Joan took this information with nothing more than a small nod of her head.

“Any chance you’re going to share how you knew that?” 

“The way you surreptitiously glanced at my arms and took in the faint scars of track marks without any note of surprise. The protective way that you speak of ‘your’ Sherlock. Also, I looked through your phone earlier, and saw some old texts that referenced ‘meetings’ and ‘sponsors’, common terminology in reference to sobriety programs, though not in reference to yourself, so for another person.” Joan looked exasperated but not terribly surprised that he had looked through her phone. Another trait apparently shared between both Sherlocks. “As for _which_ drugs, I simply assumed that, if the other Sherlock and I are at all alike, we probably sought similar substances for similar purposes.” 

“You also share a talent for tact,” Joan added sarcastically, then her voice turned gentle as she asked, “You’re doing okay now? Are you in a program?” Sherlock huffed with derision.

“No. I did my time in rehab, but there is absolutely no way that anyone could force me to attend those maudlin meetings and listen to insipid morons ramble on about their boring lives. I’m clean.” He paused for a moment, then added softly, “John would leave if I weren’t.”

Joan nodded, a slight softness in her expression, then asked, “What are you reading about?”

“Quantum mechanics, the theory of universal wavefunction, and the Planck constant.” He held up one of the thick volumes of text, showing a cover with a picture of black space interspersed with stars. “I’ve never given it much thought, as it seemed rather irrelevant, but if it’s going to start causing my flatmate to pop up on the other side of the ocean, then I suppose that I should learn a little more about the many-worlds interpretation.”

Joan tilted her head thoughtfully. “I’m not an expert, but I took some physics courses during my undergrad. Scooch over, I’d like to have a look at some of those books, too.” Sherlock obliged, though he didn’t particularly enjoy being told to “scooch”. Nor did he appreciate the little moue of distaste on Joan’s face as she pushed a stack of newspapers to the side to make room for her feet on the chair opposite.

“Those are important research material for a case,” he complained.

“Oh, stuff it. Read your books and stop whining. God, John must be a _saint_ to put up with you.” Sherlock glared at her, but she wasn’t watching him. The worst part was, he was inclined to agree. He knew he was difficult to live with, and really couldn’t understand why John had stuck around for so long.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Every few moments, Sherlock would look up at the screen displaying the flight statuses, and glare at the word “DELAYED” where it was showing next to John’s flight number. Joan had settled into her chair, and was starting to look rather tired. Finally, just as Sherlock was becoming certain that he might have to commit a murder of his own to prevent insanity from setting in, the word “DELAYED” ticked over to read “ARRIVED”._
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> In which one Sherlock does not like flying, the other does not like waiting, and things don't turn out well for either Watson.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone for the kudos and feedback! It's definitely motivating to know that people are actually reading and (hopefully) enjoying!
> 
> Unbeta'd, unbritpicked. **WARNING:** Contains spoilers for BBC's Sherlock series 2 and the finale of season 1 of Elementary.

John hated aeroplanes. He wasn’t afraid of flying or anything - multiple trips to Afghanistan and back had ensured that - but they were always so uncomfortable and boring and dry, both figuratively and literally. Transatlantic flights, in particular, were especially awful. At least this time around he wouldn't also have to contend with his Sherlock, who was worse to take on planes than small children. At least small children could be distracted with a new toy or some sweets.

Speaking of stroppy detectives, John couldn’t help but compare the two men who shared the same unusual name. The American Sherlock was almost... twitchy. Whereas _his_ Sherlock was like some sort of wild cat in the jungle - all barely withheld strength and energy - this Sherlock seemed more like a caged animal, rocking subtly on his feet, his hands barely holding still for a moment. 

“Alright?” John asked as they stood in line to go through security.

“Hmm? Oh, yes. Fine. Just thinking about several things at once. I'm wondering how else the experiences of myself and Watson compare to those of you and your Sherlock.”

John chuckled. “‘My’ Sherlock, eh? I suppose it fits, seeing how I’ve been dubbed his unofficial handler by New Scotland Yard.” Sherlock smiled halfheartedly. “Well, he’s a great deal more misanthropic than you seem to be. Also, er... a bit more... posh. No offense.” Sherlock waved his hand.

“None taken. I actually come from a rather well-off background, though I have chosen to distance myself from it.” John nodded. He’d caught a glance at some of this Sherlock’s tattoos, which didn’t seem to be something his Sherlock would be into. “What about life experiences? Is he a drug addict?”

John’s eyebrows rose at the ease with which the man brought up narcotics addiction. “Uhm... well, he hasn’t been since I’ve known him...” He danced around the question. Sherlock nodded.

“I suspected as much. We’re alike in more than name, it appears. What about cases? Crimes? Anything notable?” 

John nodded. “Loads, yeah. I write a blog about it. You could look it up, though Sherlock doesn't think much of my writing style. Notable ones... well, the _most_ notable was definitely all that business with Moriarty...” Sherlock’s eyes widened, and his expression was suddenly very intent.

“Moriarty? You’ve dealt with her, too?”

“Her? No, our Moriarty was a man. Or, at least, he looked like one. More of a spider in actuality, or some sort of horrible snake.” John’s lip curled. It still made him angry to think of what the monster had put both him and Sherlock through, of the time spent believing that his best friend had killed himself.

“Hmm, interesting... That there would be so _many_ parallel counterparts in the same world, it seems most unusual. Tell me more about your Moriarty.”

John made a face. “Ugh, not ‘my’ Moriarty, please. He still makes my skin crawl. Fancied himself the mirror reflection of Sherlock, had this massive... well, he called it a _game,_ that he pulled the strings in, leading Sherlock along by his love of puzzles. Blew up some buildings, killed a whole lot of people, strapped me into a vest made of semtex, told Sherlock he’d ‘burn the heart out of him.’ He was completely and utterly insane. Kept switching between creepy, playful, and silly to this... cold rage.” Sherlock appeared equal parts perturbed and fascinated. John continued, carefully keeping his voice down. It wouldn’t do to be heard speaking of explosives in an airport, especially in New York.

“He was head of this massive criminal empire - the spider metaphor again, perched on his web. Disappeared for a while after the whole semtex incident.”

“How did you manage to escape that?” Sherlock asked.

“He just... let us go. Like I said, he was completely, utterly mad. Kidnapped me, lured Sherlock to an empty pool, threatened to blow us both up, had snipers on us the whole time, left, changed his mind, came back. It really was just a game to him. Sherlock was about to shoot the semtex and blow us all up so he’d at least take out Moriarty as well, when the bastard’s phone rang.”

Sherlock looked somewhat confused. “His phone?”

“Yeah,” John answered, “he got a call, and then he just swanned off. Told Sherlock he’d be back, and that was that, for a good long while.” 

“He seems very... different from the Moriarty we’ve encountered.”

“Not sure if that’s a good thing or a bad thing.”

“What happened, in the end? You talk about him in past tense, did he die?” 

John had to take a deep breath before continuing his story. He explained, haltingly, about how Moriarty had turned the press against Sherlock, about the three snipers, and, finally about Sherlock jumping from the roof of St. Bart’s. This Sherlock’s face grew darker as the story went on.

“And the man himself?” He asked once John was done.

“Swallowed his own gun. Shot himself so Sherlock couldn’t get him to call off the snipers.”

New York Sherlock was silent for a while as he considered this, both men shuffling forward in the security line. After several tense moments, he spoke.  
“Thank you for telling me this, Dr. Watson. If it means that I and my Watson might avoid a similar fate...” 

John offered him a small, but genuine smile. “I hope that it helps. And please, just 'John' is fine.”

After they had cleared through the security check, Sherlock started getting more and more restless. John didn't know the man very well, but it didn't seem normal. If anything, he would swear that Sherlock was nervous. John had taken a seat at the gate, waiting for their plane to board, but the other man was pacing back and forth, his eyes darting over the other passengers and members of the flight crew who walked by.

"Are you okay?" John asked. 

Sherlock continued moving. "One of the flight attendants is sleeping with the pilot. They had a liason last night, in whatever hotel they used to put the crew up in."

John knew better to question the accuracy of Sherlock's deductions - regardless of the Sherlock making them - but he struggled to see the relevency of this statement. "Not that I don't believe you, but... why does that matter?"

"The plane that they flew here in got to the airport at approximately eleven PM. Allowing two hours for all of the necessary post-flight checks and paperwork, another hour to get to the hotel and check in, dinner, drinks, a romantic liason and what appears to be an hour and a half of rather vigourous sexual activity, then breakfast - not at the hotel, as is evident by the crumbs in his moustache - and getting here in rush hour traffic..." He was getting more and more worked up. John stood, and put a hand on his shoulder, effectively cutting him off.

"Hey, it's okay, just... calm down. Breathe. Tell me what's wrong." Sherlock took a deep breath and let it out again.

"If I am right, which I am, our pilot has not had more than five hours of sleep." John took this information in, puzzled it over, and came up with what seemed to be the root of the problem.

"Sherlock," he said gently, "Are you afraid of flying?"

"Nothing so illogical as that," the other man responded, "It's not some baseless phobia. I know people, I see everything about them in a glance, and when I look at the flight crews and maintenance staff and administrators, I see thousands of different human flaws and weaknesses, any one of which could somehow end with our plane coming spiralling down into the Atlantic ocean, where we all suffer an unpleasant death."

Thankfully, nobody around them seemed to be paying them any attention. There were some perks to the famed ability of New Yorkers to completely ignore everything going on around them. 

"I get it, you know," John said, "Human error can cause some truly horrific accidents. The likelihood of any of those errors happening on _this exact plane_ , however, is extremely small. Take it from someone who's flown in helicopters that are so old and decrepit that they're more likely to fall apart mid air than be hit by the RPGs being fired at them. I have had spectacular luck with aircraft, and that's not going to change any time soon."

Sherlock didn't look terribly comforted. 

"You can hold my hand, if you like," John added jokingly, "Or, I dunno, distract yourself. Recite Pi or... deduce the other passengers." Sherlock still looked tense, but he set his mouth into a thin, determined line,and nodded. "Come on, let's go grab some disgusting airport food while we wait."

Later, on the plane, John couldn't help but hear Sherlock, muttering under his breath, "Hydrogen, helium, lithium, beryllium, boron, carbon, nitrogen..." and while the detective didn't appear calm, he made it through the (boring, uneventful) flight without further incident.

-x-X-x-

Sherlock paced restlessly through the gate exit at Heathrow airport. John and the other Sherlock’s plane wasn’t due for another forty-five minutes, but he hadn’t been able to stand sitting around at home any longer, and had dragged Joan out to wait at the airport. To her credit, she had gone without complaint, and now sat quietly, reading something on John’s laptop. Sherlock continued prowling back and forth for several moments before realising that Joan had spoken.

“What?” he asked.

Joan sighed. “I _said_ , it sounds like you and John have had a very interesting time together. If this is what Sherlock and I have to look forward to, I’m glad to have some forewarning.” Sherlock grunted. “Are you always this pleasant, or am I special?” Something finally snapped.

“Good god, do you ever _listen_ to yourself? Stop _talking!_ I can’t stand it! It’s like driving nails into my _skull!_ ” An older woman standing by the baggage claim turned to glare at his outburst. Joan looked affronted.

"Look, I get that you're grumpy or whatever, but don't take it out on me." She glared at him for a moment, before her expression transformed to one of understanding. “You don’t like being without him, do you?” She asked. Sherlock grimaced, disliking the feeling of having such an embarrassing show of emotion be caught out.

“What I don’t _like_ is being made to put up with metaphysical nonsense when I could be spending my time on far more worthy activities.” Joan’s mouth twisted into a frown of disbelief.

“Sure. Well, regardless, your pacing is making me dizzy. Could you sit down?” Sherlock growled, and flung himself into one of the padded plastic airport chairs, crossing his arms in front of himself. Joan rolled her eyes.

The forty-five minute wait dragged on into an hour, and then an hour and a half. Every few moments, Sherlock would look up at the screen displaying the flight statuses, and glare at the word “DELAYED” where it was showing next to John’s flight number. Joan had settled into her chair, and was starting to look rather tired. Finally, just as Sherlock was becoming certain that he might have to commit a murder of his own to prevent insanity from setting in, the word “DELAYED” ticked over to read “ARRIVED”. 

“Thank _GOD!_ ” he cried, jumping up from his seat, startling Joan, who had just begun nodding off. 

“Sherlock!” she admonished, “Calm down, it’ll be another thirty minutes at _least_ before they’ve finished taxiing, come to the gate, and start letting people depart! Not to mention going through customs.” He slumped back into the seat and tugged at his hair, groaning.

It was actually thirty two minutes, by Sherlock’s count, before passengers from the flight from New York began to stream out into the gate. He absentmindedly deduced details about several of them as he waited for John and his own American counterpart. The flow of deplaning passengers slowed to a trickle, and then sporadic groups of one or two, and then it stopped altogether. There was no John. Sherlock's phone pinged with a text message notification.

 _Thought you were meeting us at the gate?_ Sherlock frowned, and looked around again, scrutinising each and every passenger remaining near the baggage claim.

_We *are* at the gate. Where are you? SH_

"What is it?" Joan asked.

"John says that they are at the gate, but we are not."

"Maybe we got the gates mixed up?" 

Sherlock shook his head. "No, there is only one flight from New York that was scheduled to arrive at the time that John said, and this was it."

"Are you sure this _is_ the New York flight?"

Sherlock shot her a glare, before turning back to text on his phone. "Of course I'm sure. Look at the passengers, look at the luggage. Even if it weren't for the JFK luggage tags it would be obvious. Half of these people are tourists returning from your home city, many of whom are carrying souvenirs with that ubiquitous 'I heart NY' slogan on them."

_Meet in front of the American Express shop, in the Arrivals section. SH_

"Come on," he dragged Joan over to the location he'd just texted John. They waited another five minutes, and then Sherlock's phone began to ring. Much as he might prefer to text, this situation called for him to actually answer.

"John," Sherlock said by way of greeting.

"Sherlock, where the hell are you? We're standing right in front of the American Express store, but I don't see you!"

Sherlock frowned. "We're in front of the store. Terminal 3. Arrivals."

"Well, so are we. What the hell's going on?"

"What is it?" Joan asked. Sherlock waved his hand as indication to leave him be.

"I'm starting to suspect that the other Sherlock's parallel universe theory may be correct," Sherlock told John.

There was a bit of a pause before John responded. "What are you saying?"

"I'm not sure yet. We're going back to Baker Street. You should as well, perhaps we're simply missing each other somehow, and we'll meet up at home."

"Or?" John sounded very uneasy.

"Or we'll deal with that problem when it arises." 

John sighed. "Alright, we'll head for Baker Street. See you there." Sherlock could only hope they would.

-x-X-x-

John thrummed with nervous tension throughout the entire taxi ride to the flat. He was fairly sure that he knew what hypothesis Sherlock had formed, and was certain that he didn't like the possibility one bit. New York Sherlock looked eagerly out of the windows of the car, taking in all the ways that his old home city had changed since he'd last been there. The taxi pulled up to 221B, and both men disembarked. As soon as he saw the front door to the flat, John knew that something was wrong.

The door - the same door that he walked through every day - was different. For one, it was painted red, not the black that it had been less than thirty six hours ago. The numbers were a different style, and, most disturbing of all, the cafe next door was not the same Speedy's that John had passed so often. It was called "Coffeeco", and the formerly red signage was green.

"This isn't my flat," John breathed. Sherlock hurried up to stand next to him, peering up at the building.

"Nice area," he said amicably, "I can see why you'd rent here. Shall we see if anyone is home?" John swallowed down his rising panic and nodded, steeling himself for what he might find.

The door was answered by a young man holding a pyjama-clad toddler against his hip.

"Yes? Can I help you?" he asked. John froze, but Sherlock swooped in.

"Yes, thank you, my friend here has recently returned from service in Afghanistan, and is trying to find an acquaintance who we believe used to live here. Are you familiar with the former tennants?" The man looked flustered for a moment, then set the toddler down.

"Go find mummy, Alice!" The little girl ran off down the hall, and the man turned back to John and Sherlock. "We bought the place four years ago, from an older couple. I think they had a son, but we never really talked to them beyond the negotiations for the sale. I'm sorry."

"Quite alright, thank you for your time," Sherlock answered, and the man nodded before closing the door. John stood, frozen in place.

"Are you alright?" Sherlock asked, scrutinising John. He shook himself.

"Yeah, I... I don't know," John answered, "What's going on? Where the hell is Sherlock? Where the hell's my flat?" He could feel hysteria threatening. 

"Well I'm not a physicist, but from what your Sherlock said, and in keeping with the parallel universes theory, I believe that you and Miss Watson have somehow ended up in each other's universe."

John had no idea what to say to that. It was absurd, impossible, and yet here he was, standing outside of a 221B Baker Street where he didn't live, with a Sherlock Holmes who shouldn't have existed.

"What do we do?" John asked. 

"Well, first we should probably find somewhere to stay. Do you have a preference of hotel?" John shook his head silently. "Well, I know of some nice ones. You get in touch with Joan and your Sherlock, let them know what happened." Dazed, John followed Sherlock into a taxi, and they headed for a place to stay.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With each Watson trapped in a universe not their own, they and their Sherlocks work out logistics. Joan is having none of John's Sherlock's crap.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick note re: passports. I live in Canada and have never traveled outside of North America (boo...). On the occasions when I _did_ travel outside the country (to the States), all that was required to cross the border was proof of citizenship (e.g. birth certificate, citizenship card, military ID) and a form of picture identification (e.g. driver's licence). It wasn't until I wrote this chapter that I looked up what one requires to enter the UK, and realized that John would require a passport. So, I had two choices; go back, rewrite the previous chapter to include frantic running around to obtain forged documents, thus stalling the story; or make John luckily have his passport handy... Yeah, I went with option two.
> 
> I'm sorry! I'm a bad person! It won't happen again, I swear! I accept any and all floggings that are my due.
> 
> For NY Sherlock's atrociously convoluted text speak, I've made it so hovering your mouse over the words will cause a translation to pop up. Please let me know if this doesn't work/if I should just write the translations alongside the texts.

John conversed with his Sherlock via mobile phone (a testament to the seriousness of the situation that Sherlock was even willing to have more than one phone conversation in a day) as Joan's Sherlock checked them into a (very nice) hotel. After almost forty five minutes of talking, they had determined several things:

1\. Each Sherlock existed in a parallel but very similar universe.

2\. John and Joan had somehow been switched between the two.

3\. Phones in the other universe could only be contacted by phones originally from said universe (so the Sherlocks couldn't call one another on their own phones). John was doing his best not to think what the roaming charges for “alternate universe” might be.

4\. Neither Watson had access to his or her bank accounts, and while John's passport (thankfully left in his coat pocket from a case the week previous) had gotten him into the country, it was entirely possible that was only because of laziness on the part of the security agents at the airport, who hadn’t run it through the computer.

5\. Nobody had any idea how to fix it.

John sat on the edge of his hotel bed later that evening, mobile clutched in his hand, and had a silent freak-out. Joan’s Sherlock was also not pleased, if his tense staring into space was anything to go by. John was tired, despite his experience with keeping odd hours. It was almost midnight London time, he had been stressed all day, and it was starting to catch up with him. He almost jumped when his phone went off.

_I'll get in touch with Mycroft, to see if there's anything in the science community being kept under wraps by the government. Stay in London until further notice. SH_

He showed the text to Sherlock, who nodded. John yawned widely, and looked back at the bed.

"I need sleep," he said, "If you're anything like my Sherlock, you probably go for days on end before crashing into unconsciousness, so just... try not to wake me up." He looked down at his clothes. He would have to sleep in his boxers, and then wear the same shirt and trousers tomorrow.

"We can go buy you some necessities once the shops open tomorrow," Sherlock said, reading his mind in a way terribly similar to his own friend. "I'll loan you the money, and then we can gain access to Joan's accounts and she can pay me back."

John appreciated the man's optimism that she _would_ return.

"Won't she be upset if you use her money?"

"Well, I would imagine that the other Sherlock is going to suggest she use yours, and judging by your respective tastes in fashion, she is going to put a significantly larger dent in your savings than you in hers."  
John groaned. "Oh, god. I'm way too tired for this. I'm going to sleep. Wake me up if I end up back in my own universe somehow."

"If you were to end up back in your own universe, I would have no way to wake you, seeing as I would be here."

"Yes, thank you. Sleeping now." Sherlock shrugged, and lay back on his own bed, his phone in his hands, and started texting his own Watson.

-x-X-x-

Sherlock and Joan had returned to 221B to find it devoid of Sherlock and John, and had quickly discovered that their fears had been real. Following a lengthy conversation by speakerphone, John’s Sherlock had flopped down on the couch, curled up facing the back, and commenced sulking. Joan, at a loss with how to help, had turned to the person who had the best chance of understanding Sherlock: Sherlock.

**Joan Watson:** _Sherlock seems distraught. Any ideas how to help? You ok?_

**Sherlock Holmes:** [Im fne nt hppy bout situ bt ok. Othr SH mss JW :( frnds 4.5 yrs vry codepndnt. U r gd @ tlking so tlk 2 OSH ]()

Good lord, they really did need to talk about this text speak of his. She parsed out the meaning behind the gobbledegook, and thought about it. This universe’s Sherlock hadn’t been terribly forthcoming about his relationship with John, but if his behaviour at the airport was any indication, he obviously cared for the man more than he let on.

**Joan Watson:** _You sure you're ok? Will being back in London be a problem?_

She may not be his sober companion anymore, but she knew how returning to old stomping grounds could bring up old memories, and potentially trigger a relapse.

**Sherlock Holmes:** [Thx 4 cncrn. I rly m fne. U dd gr8 jb @ sbr cmpn. U ok?]()

Joan had no idea what to make of the first part of the text, but smiled at the inquiry into her own well being. She considered the Sherlock curled into the fetal position on the couch.

**Joan Watson:** _I’m ok, not thrilled about the situation either, but holding up. Do you have any ideas what to do about OSH? Maybe a way to distract him while we work on a solution?_

**Sherlock Holmes:** [Case? Wrk 2gthr w NSY put ur sklz f deductn 2 wrk! GL w OSH. dnt wry bout me I wll cntct physcst frnd in Lndn 2 c if sltn 2 prblm exst tty 2mrw]()

**Joan Watson:** _Goodnight._

She tucked her phone into her back pocket, and looked over at the sofa. Sherlock had curled in on himself, back to the room, and tension radiated from his shoulders. Joan approached with caution.

“Sherlock? Are you okay?” The only response was a small huff of breath. “This sucks, I know, I hate it too.” A disgruntled sort of “hmmph” was emitted by the figure on the sofa. “Listen, if you want to talk about it... My Sherlock says I make a very good sounding board.”

Sherlock spoke into the cushions of the back of the couch. “John is my sounding board.”

“Well... I’m here if you want to talk.” More silence. Maybe he was just tired, though if her own Sherlock was anything to go by, he likely didn’t sleep nearly as often as humans _should_. It was after midnight, London time, but Joan’s internal clock was telling her it was seven in the evening, and her stomach was informing her that it was dinner time. The toast she’d made herself for lunch was a long time ago. Leaving Sherlock to his mood, she headed for the kitchen, remembering John saying something about leftover takeout in the fridge. 

She wasn’t expecting a severed human foot to be sitting on the top shelf, right next to a tub of yogurt and a container of curry.

“Oh my god!” she shouted, slamming the fridge door closed. “Sherlock! Someone’s put a foot in your fridge!” She hurried into the living room. Sherlock hadn’t moved. “Sherlock! Did you hear me? We have to call the cops! There’s a foot in your fridge! Is it some sort of message?”

“Hmm? Oh, yes. That,” Sherlock mumbled dismissively, “It’s for an experiment. If it bothers you, you can go put it in the fish tank in my bedroom. It should be coagulated enough by now.”

Joan could feel her eye twitch. “I’m sorry, what?”

“Apology accepted. Now leave me be.”

“That wasn’t an apology! That was a request for more information! Why on _earth_ do you have body parts in your fridge?”

“Body part,” Sherlock said, rolling to face her.

“What?”

“Body _part_. Singular. You said body _parts_ , plural. There is only one body part in the fridge. John made me throw out the section of thigh after he claimed it had him seriously contemplating vegetarianism.” 

Joan could hardly believe what she was hearing. “You keep pieces of cadaver in your _house?_ Are you insane? Do I want to know where you get them from?”

“Yes, possibly, and I have no idea,” Sherlock said. “You were a doctor, surely you’ve worked with cadavers before?”

Joan bristled. “That’s not the point! Ugh. I can’t do this right now. I need food. Food that hasn’t been anywhere near dead bits of human being!” She turned on her heel and stomped over to her phone, googling for nearby restaurants, reminding herself that homicide wouldn't help anything.

“Takeaway menus are in the rightmost drawer of the desk,” Sherlock informed her before rolling back over and calling out, muffled by the sofa, "If you get Chinese, order me some kung pao chicken!" Joan almost gave in to the urge to throw something at the arrogant man. She closed her eyes, practicing her calming breathing, and then turned her attention to the stack of menus.

-x-X-x-

Sherlock hated this. He hated feeling helpless, not knowing what was really going on or how to fix it. This wasn't anything that he'd ever fathomed to be possible. It wasn't something that could be solved through deductions, some crime with a criminal to be apprehended. He was at a loss.

When they had arrived back at 221B to find that John and the other Sherlock were not there, he had felt his stomach drop. Still, it hadn't been until John had called and told him that the flat he had arrived to was not his own that Sherlock had begun to really be afraid. 

When had he become so pathetic? The Sherlock Holmes of five years ago would be appalled. It seemed, however, that once he'd let John in and given in to sentiment it was nigh impossible to go back. Not that he hadn't tried. During the year and a half that he'd been gone, hunting down every thread of Moriarty's web, he'd spent numerous sleepless nights attempting to purge himself of such things. He'd actually attempted to delete John, briefly, but had found that even his subconscious had been unwilling to part with the only true friend he'd ever had. In the end, he'd had to face the fact that John was a weakness that he couldn't shake, and had accepted it as a fact of his new life.

Now that weakness was filling him with completely useless emotions. John was trapped in some alternate dimension - a sentence that he would have scoffed at not 24 hours previously - and he was stuck without his reflector of light. Worse still, he was saddled with this Joan woman, who did nothing but make him miss John more, and who was irritatingly unwilling to simply do his bidding and leave him alone.

He lay, moping, until he heard the door downstairs, and Joan returned with food. Heaving a self-pitying sigh, he rolled over, pulled his phone from his pocket, and texted the one person with whom he least wanted to speak. Less than two minutes later, his phone rang. He pressed the "ignore call" button and then fired off a text.

_You know I prefer to text. SH_

His phone beeped when he received a message in reply.

_And you know I prefer to call. MH_

Sherlock chose not to dignify this with any acknowledgement, and simply leapt into his reason for contacting Mycroft at all.

_I require any information that you have with regards to discoveries in physics that are being kept from the public. SH_

The phone rang again, and once again Sherlock rejected the call.

_For god's sake Sherlock, answer your phone! MH_

Sherlock snarled, and chucked the mobile across the room, where it landed on John's chair with a soft thump. Joan popped her head into the room from the kitchen.

"What's all that about?" she asked, indicating the phone.

"My insufferable sibling," Sherlock answered, "I expect you'll have the displeasure of meeting him tomorrow. He delights in finding excuses to come and 'check up' on me, and my asking about classified scientific discoveries will certainly count as such an excuse."

"You have a brother?"

"Good lord, is _that_ all you took away from what I said? Apparently my counterpart has not been as successful in training you in the science of deduction as he seems to think. Yes, I have a brother."

Joan narrowed her eyes. "You don't need to get snippy with me." She returned to the kitchen, and her takeaway.

"Where's my chicken?" Sherlock called.

"At the restaurant, I would assume, seeing how I didn't order you any!" Joan yelled back.

Sherlock sat up. "What? Why?" He stormed into the kitchen. Joan was seated at the little side table, the main one still covered with that morning's hair experiment.

"Are you serious?" she asked him disdainfully, picking up a bite of broccoli with disposable wooden chopsticks.

"Yes!" Sherlock shouted, "Yes, I'm serious! Why didn't you order me what I told you to order me! John always orders what I tell him to."

"You just answered your own question," Joan said haughtily, "For one, _I_ am not John. For two, you _told_ me to order you the chicken. No 'please,' no 'thank you,' not to mention being a complete jerk about the whole foot thing."

Sherlock was sorely tempted to start throwing crockery. "Augh! Is this some sort of 'chivalry towards women' thing? Am I to be expected to open doors for you as well?"

Joan pursed her lips and raised her eyebrows. "Wow, okay, misogyny aside, saying 'please' when asking someone to do something for you isn't 'chivalry', it's common courtesy."

"Fine," Sherlock snapped, _"Please_ stop being so incredibly annoying!" Joan looked about ready to start flinging bits of tofu at him, but was fortunately interrupted by a knock on the door to the flat, followed by a familiar voice.

"Sherlock?" Mrs. Hudson asked, poking her head around the door, "What's all the shouting about? It's one o'clock in the morning!"

Sherlock did his best to ignore the stab of guilt at waking his landlady. "Sorry, Mrs. Hudson. It's just that _Joan_ here is refusing to be _reasonable_ about-" Joan stood up and addressed the older woman, effectively cutting Sherlock off.

"It's nice to meet you, Mrs. Hudson. I'm Joan. Sorry about the noise. Sherlock was just being given a lesson in manners." If looks could kill, Joan would be dead thrice over from the way Sherlock was glaring at her. Mrs. Hudson tutting knowingly.

"He's not always good about that sort of thing," she said with a nod, "Are you a friend of John's?"

Joan looked unsure of how to answer for a moment, but obviously thought well on her feet. "A friend of Sherlock's brother, actually. I'm minding him while John's at a medical conference. You know, to make sure he stays out of trouble." She shot him a smug little smirk.

"He does have a habit of doing that, doesn't he?" Mrs. Hudson said.

"I'm standing right here," Sherlock ground out through his clenched teeth. 

Mrs. Hudson patted him on the arm. "Of course you are, dear. Now, I'm going back to bed. Please try to keep it to a dull roar?" 

Sherlock hunched his shoulders and mumbled, "Sorry, Mrs. Hudson." Once his landlady headed back downstairs, he turned the full force of his ire on Joan. Or he would have, if she hadn't headed him off.

"Ah ah, you heard her. Better keep quiet." She turned her attention back to her food, dismissing him.

"Augh!" he shouted, before stomping off to his room and collapsing face down onto his bed. Mycroft had better have a solution to this problem, or Sherlock may be forced to desperate measures. He shoved his face into the pillow and contemplated how angry John would be if he were to murder the man's parallel universe counterpart. Very angry, Sherlock decided, possibly even furious to the point of not forgiving Sherlock.. Best find another method of coping, then. Sighing, he buried his face into his pillow and willed himself to sleep. Maybe by the time he woke up, everything would have sorted itself out and he would have John back, and they could forget that this whole fiasco ever happened.

His dreams that night were of blond men in wool jumpers being pushed into swirling black vortexes by faceless figures in Westwood suits, while Sherlock could do nothing but look on in horror.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two separate pairs of Holmeses and Watsons come to two very similar conclusions.

If you had asked the John Watson of last week what, exactly, he expected his weekend to involve, he would have had a large variety of possibilities to choose from. Chief among said possibilities would be “chasing down a murderer/kidnapper/smuggler” or “preventing Sherlock from blowing up the flat in a fit of boredom”. Nowhere on his list would be “driving up north of Cambridge to visit a lab to speak to a physicist about the possibility of trans-dimensional travel”, and yet, there he was, getting ready to do just that.

His morning had consisted of breakfast, shopping for clothes (thankfully Joan’s Sherlock was not the slave to fashion that his own Sherlock was, and so didn’t put up a fuss when John simply found two shirts that fit and then bought them each in three different colours), and waiting around while Sherlock contacted this physicist he knew.

John also learned something new about his companion; the man’s father was _loaded_. He’d always suspected that his Sherlock had come from money, what with the Spencer Hart suits and the public school accent, but if this Sherlock was anything to go by, he’d really had no idea of the wealth that existed in the Holmes’s background. No wonder Mycroft was so stuffy and uptight.

The way that John’s discovery was brought about was through a trip to a private car-park to obtain a vehicle (the lab they were headed to was sufficiently out of the way as to require a car for easy access). Sherlock explained that the building belonged to his father, and was used to house the less-used automobiles in the elder Holmes’s fleet. When John had seen what, exactly, the “fleet” consisted of, his jaw had dropped.

Now, John wasn’t a gearhead by any stretch of the imagination, but he enjoyed the antics of Jeremy Clarkson, James May, and Richard Hammond, and had gleaned enough information from watching Top Gear to appreciate a well-made, luxury car when he saw one. And now he was faced with a dozen of them. Jaguar, Rolls Royce, Lamborghini - every car in the place cost more than John made in a year. Some cost more than he made in five years! Just _looking_ at them made him feel rather ill, let alone the idea of _driving_ one of them. Sherlock, however, was not deterred in the least.

“We’ll take the Range Rover,” he said, indicating a large, charcoal grey monstrosity of a sport utility vehicle parked next to an Aston Martin that would have made James Bond himself jealous.

“Your father is alright with you borrowing his hundred-thousand pound SUV?”

Sherlock made a sort of “weeeell...” motion with his head, and said, “You’re assuming he’s aware that I’m doing so.” 

John covered his face with his hand. “I would really prefer not to be arrested for motor vehicle theft, if that’s alright with you.”

Sherlock waved his hand dismissively. “Don’t be absurd, my father will know that it’s me who’s taken the car. I’d just rather not have to deal with him face-to-face ahead of time. Easier to ask forgiveness, etcetera etcetera. Now, do you have a driving licence?”

John narrowed his eyes. “Yes... are you saying you don’t know how to drive?”

“Of course I know how to drive,” Sherlock said, “I just don’t have a licence, and would rather avoid unnecessary problems with the law.” John decided that he’d rather just go along with it.

“Fine, I’ll drive. Keys?” He held out his hand. Sherlock shook his head and approached the driver’s side door. “Sherlock, please tell me you have keys for this thing.”

“Would it make you feel better if I told you that?” the other man asked while pulling a long, flat metal hook out of the bag he’d purchased while John was looking for trousers.

“Yes, it really would,” John said.

“Alright then, I have keys for this thing,” Sherlock said dismissively, sliding the hook down next to the window and wiggling it around until the door unlocked. “Aha!”

“You’re obviously lying!” John said, looking around to be sure nobody was watching.

“Of course, but you said it would make you feel better if I told you that I had keys, so I told you that I have keys. Now, quiet for a moment. I need to deactivate the alarm within the next five minutes or the police will be automatically notified.

Thus occurred John’s first lesson in hotwiring a car. Sherlock was, of course, very good at it. He apparently got lessons on all of the latest anti-theft measures from his Addicts Anonymous sponsor, Alfredo, who tested the systems for a living. It was actually very informative, though mildly distressing, considering that it was being used to “liberate” an automobile from the car-park of Holmes Sr. 

The drive up was spent talking about some of Sherlock’s cases in New York, and some of John’s cases in London. Sherlock enjoyed the story of the six Thatchers, and John was very impressed by the combined efforts of Joan and Sherlock while on the case of Gerald Lydon’s mysterious contraction of cerebral amyloid angiopathy.

Nearly two hours later, they arrived at the laboratory where Sherlock’s friend worked. It was some large, government-funded operation working in tandem with Cambridge’s departments of physics and astronomy. They were greeted in the foyer by Dr. Kristofer Obrecht, who was tall, blond, had a faint Swiss accent, and insisted that John call him “Kris”.

“Any friend of Sherlock’s is a friend of mine,” Kris said, leading them down a brightly lit white hallway, past the doors to several labs. 

“How’d you two meet?” John asked.

Sherlock smiled. “I met Kristofer back when he was working on his masters at the École Polytechnique Fédérale de Lausanne in Switzerland; I wanted to know about some of the facilities on campus there for a case I was working on.”

“He says he spoke with me because I was at the same pub as him and was ‘convenient’,” Kris explained, “Though I still think it’s because I was the only person he met with who didn’t try to punch him in the nose when he deduced all their dirty little secrets.” That reminded John very strongly of his own Sherlock, and he smiled, then instantly felt a little pang of sadness. Kris continued speaking. “so, what can I do for you gentlemen?”

“Do you have an office where we can speak privately?” Sherlock asked.

Kris furrowed his brow, but led them along to a little office that had just enough space for a desk and two chairs. “Are you in some sort of trouble, Sherlock?” he asked.

Sherlock and John exchanged a glance. “Not _really,_ ” John said, “It’s just... complicated.”

Kris looked worried. “Try me, at least?”

Sherlock was the one who did the talking, which turned out to be a very good thing, as he had apparently come up with an entire backstory with regards to their reason for visiting and their request for information that had nothing to do with John being from another dimension. In the end, it came down to Sherlock explaining that they were looking for any available data that had to do with the ability to transport something - or someone - from one dimension to another.

John sat back, listened to Sherlock, and then waited for Dr. Obrecht to declare the whole idea absurd and request that they be on their way. What he did not expect was for the doctor to purse his lips, consider for several moments, and then say,

“I really shouldn’t be telling you this.”

Sherlock looked thrilled. “But you’re going to anyway, aren’t you?” 

“Well, I mean,” Kris started, “I myself haven’t had anything to do with this sort of thing...”

Sherlock jumped on this. “But this isn’t a foreign concept to you. Have there been experiments with this? Successes?”

“Yes...” Dr. Olbrecht said, and he looked around as though to be certain that no one was listening, then lowered his voice and said, “It’s been done, in a lab in the US.”

Sherlock’s eyes lit up. Kris continued, “But I’ve never... it isn’t possible with any sort of complex organism.”

“But it has been done? What have they had success with?” John asked hopefully.

Kris looked uncomfortable before he answered, reluctantly, “They’ve managed it with single atoms. It’s very early stages yet, and _very_ classified. If I weren’t so sure that I could trust you, Holmes...”

“I assure you that I won’t breathe a word of this to anyone outside this lab,” Sherlock said.

“I suppose it won’t do any harm,” Kris said, “Considering how the whole project has been put on indefinite hold.” John felt his stomach drop.

“Why’s that?” he asked.

“One of the lead physicists working on the project disappeared recently, and nobody has had any luck in locating him,” Kris explained.

Sherlock perked up at this. “Oh?”

“Yes,” Kris confirmed, “It’s very sad. He was an essential part of the team. It will take them a very long time to find someone who can take his place.”

John studied Sherlock. He could tell the detective was contemplating something, obviously triggered by Kris’s mention of the missing scientist. Sherlock, however, simply stood and offered Dr. Obrecht a handshake and a smile.

“Thank you, Kristofer,” he said, “You’ve been marvelously helpful, but we must be on our way.”  
John bid Dr. Obrecht a good afternoon, and hurried to follow Sherlock. Thankfully, this Holmes had slightly shorter legs than the Sherlock John was used to, so he didn’t have to jog quite so much to keep up with him.

“Feel like sharing?” John asked, “You shot out of there pretty quick. Where are we going?”

Sherlock grinned at him, “We, John, are going to find a missing scientist!” And with that, they were off.

~x~X~x~

Joan woke up not feeling terribly well-rested the next morning. She had slept in John’s bed, wearing an old t-shirt and a pair of boxers pilfered from the man’s dresser, and had managed to remain in bed until almost 1 PM London time, but some combination of jet lag, spicy tofu, and universe hopping had conspired to make it nigh impossible to get a good night’s sleep. Yawning, she trudged downstairs, hoping that at least the coffee hadn’t been transformed into some sort of biohazard care of one Sherlock Holmes.

She was completely unprepared for the presence of a very well-dressed man sitting in the living room, apparently having some sort of staring contest with Sherlock.

“Uh... hi?” she said when the man turned to her.

“Good afternoon,” he said with a bland smile, “You must be Ms. Watson.”

Joan examined him for a moment, before drawing her conclusions. “You must be the brother,” she said.

He stood and shook her hand. “Mycroft Holmes, a pleasure to make your acquaintance. Sherlock has given me a quick rundown of the... unique circumstances of your visit.” Sherlock made a snorting noise from where he sat. His body language all but screamed defensiveness. 

“Joan, please. It’s nice to meet you, too,” Joan replied, “You just... believed him? I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’m glad we don’t have to convince you, but... if I weren’t the one experiencing this first-hand, I’d have a bit of trouble accepting the idea of parallel universes switching people at random.” 

“Were I to be expected to take this as fact on my brother’s word alone, I would be forced to agree with you, Ms. Watson.” Joan prickled at his refusal to call her by her first name. “As it stands, however, there is... corroborating evidence.” Sherlock perked up at this.

“You didn’t say anything about this earlier, Mycroft.”

“I was getting to it, Sherlock. I thought it best to wait for Ms. Watson, so as to prevent myself from being required to explain things more than once.” 

“You thought it best to wait because you enjoy antagonising me at every opportunity.”

Joan looked on with interest as the brothers glared at each other. Mycroft sighed, and then spoke, “Well, since we’re all here, why don’t you take a seat, Ms. Watson, and I’ll tell you both what I know.”

Joan sat down on the unoccupied sofa, accepted the file that was handed to her (an identical one was also given to Sherlock) and then listened. Well, she tried to listen. Unfortunately, for all that she was of above average intelligence, her physics background was limited to those two courses in her undergrad, and then high school before that, so most of what Mycroft had to say went flying right over her head. She recognised words like “particle accelerator” and “string theory”, and it was all very technical. She did, however, manage to understand the basic gist of what Mycroft was saying.

“So, long story short, there’s a top secret lab somewhere in the US that’s been doing experiments in transporting atoms from one dimension to another?” She asked, making sure she had things straight.

“Yes,” Mycroft said.

“And, fairly recently, one of the scientists working on this project just... disappeared. And no one knows where he went.”

“Correct,” Mycroft confirmed.

“But some other scientist showed up, very confused, claiming to be the same scientist that went missing, despite looking nothing like him.”

“Exactly,” Mycroft finished with a small smile. 

“Where is this mystery scientist now? Not still in the States?” Sherlock asked. Mycroft looked distinctly uncomfortable at the question. “Ah,” Sherlock murmured.

“Ah? What ‘ah’?” Joan asked.

“When it was determined that they had no knowledge of how to return him to his own world, he chose to... discontinue his existence,” Mycroft explained delicately.

“You mean he killed himself,” Joan said softly. It wasn’t a question. 

“Regrettably, yes,” Mycroft answered. 

“Ah.” Joan wasn’t sure what else to say. 

“I am sorry, Ms. Watson. I wish that I had better news. As it stands, it seems that you may be a visitor here for the foreseeable future. I would be happy to put you up in a flat and provide you with-”

“That won’t be necessary,” Sherlock cut in.

Joan squinted at him, trying to figure out what he was doing. Mycroft raised an eyebrow. “No?”

“No,” Sherlock said, “Joan will remain here.”

Well, that was unexpected. She wasn’t entirely opposed to the idea, however. Despite the slightly rocky start she and Sherlock had experienced, the man was her only link, however tenuous, to her home, and she was reluctant to just up and leave. Still, she hadn’t thought Sherlock was terribly pleased with her presence. “Really?” she asked.

“Yes,” Sherlock said with a smile, his eyes glittering, “I’m going to need your assistance.”

She knew that look. That was the look that her own Sherlock got when he’d realised that something was more than it seemed on the surface, or when Gregson called with a particularly fascinating murder. She couldn’t help but feel a corresponding tug of excitement at the prospect of a case. “You are? With what?”

Sherlock smirked, and glanced down at the file. “This missing scientist,” he directed at Mycroft, “Brilliant?”

“Exceedingly so,” Mycroft answered.

“Talented?”

“Certainly.”

“Vain?”

“Aren’t most geniuses?” Mycroft had a smirk of his own. Joan tried to stifle a laugh, but Sherlock shot her a glare regardless before continuing.

“He had access to all sorts of research and equipment that could be very valuable and very deadly in the right hands.” Sherlock was sounding less and less like he was actually asking questions.

Mycroft’s mouth quirked almost into a proud smile. “That he did.”

“Excellent,” Sherlock hissed, a predatory grin stretched across his face.

“Mind explaining what you two are talking about?” Joan asked.

“Simple,” Sherlock said, “You and I are going to work with John and your Sherlock to catch this scientist, who has absconded to your dimension, get him to tell us how to switch you two back, and then, presumably, have said scientist arrested for selling proprietary information and government property to...” He glanced at Mycroft.

“Most likely China, possibly Iran,” Mycroft finished. Sherlock looked expectantly at Joan.

“Oh,” she said, “Well then... sounds like fun. When do we get started?” Sherlock positively beamed.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The investigation begins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone for all your kudos and comments! It's so motivating to know that people are enjoying what I've written.

Following Mycroft's departure from 221B, Joan set about making herself some breakfast (though it was lunchtime), and Sherlock began pacing back and forth through the living room, going through what he already knew and what had to be done.

"It's obvious that this Dr. Lawson has found a way to switch people from one parallel dimension to the other, and has used it to escape something here in this world," he explained. He wasn't really speaking to anyone in particular, but still found it helpful to work through things aloud. "Now, there are two possibilities; either one of the governments involved in the project caught on to what he was doing, and he ran to avoid being arrested and possibly charged with treason, or one of the groups with which he was dealing turned on him and he ran to escape an unpleasant fate at the hands of terrorists or the like."

Joan had come to sit on the sofa, eating a bowl of oatmeal and watching Sherlock. She spoke up at this point. "What difference does it make _why_ he ran?"

Sherlock spun to face her, his dressing gown whirling about him dramatically. "It makes _all_ the difference!" he said with an intensity that spoke to his excitement at the possibility of solving this case and getting John back, "If he's running from a _government,_ it's possible that he has already completed the transaction with his buyers. While he does not have access to his accounts in the other universe, if this was something that he planned in advance, he could easily have brought cash with him. We've already determined that items on one's person are capable of making the journey from one world to the other.

"If, on the other hand, he is running from his _buyers_ , then he is now trapped in an alternate universe with no funds, no friends, and limited options of how to proceed without putting himself in the same situation. What he chooses to do next will depend on this." Sherlock resumed his pacing. "So all we need to do is find out what has been done here in this world, and then the other Sherlock simply picks up the trail where it comes out on the other side, and we have him! Fetch my laptop, John! I have international terrorist organisations to research!"

Sherlock turned to face the sofa, and was faced with a distressed-looking Joan Watson. "Ah, yes, right," Sherlock said quietly, "I forgot that... No matter. Joan, we have much to discuss with your Sherlock. Finish whatever morning ablutions you require and then get in touch with him via your trans-dimensional mobile." 

Joan gave him a pointed look, and Sherlock sighed. _"Please,"_ he added. Joan didn't look terribly impressed, but had an irritated little smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. Sherlock was very familiar with irritated smiles. He was often on the receiving end of them care of the people in his life. John's, however, was always tinged with a certain degree of fondness that Sherlock found secretly pleasing.

"Alright, I'll go have a shower. I'm still going to need to go shopping at some point today, though. Can't exactly go taking out terrorists with only one set of clothes."

"You could, technically," Sherlock pointed out, "but I suppose I can see your point. Very well. You shower while I begin my preliminary research, and when you come down I'll direct you to the nearest women's clothiers." Joan nodded, setting aside her now-empty bowl and then heading towards the bathroom. She paused halfway there, and turned back.

"And how, exactly, am I going to be paying for anything?" Joan asked, "John's already established that bank cards from one universe don't work in the other."

"In my room, top drawer of the dresser, between the row of black socks and the row of blue," Sherlock called out. There were a few moments of silence as Joan went and investigated, before she came back out into the hallway.

"Are these copies of John's debit and credit cards?" She asked incredulously.

"Along with one of his driving licence, military ID, birth certificate, and library card," Sherlock answered, his gaze never leaving the laptop screen.

"Library card?" Joan questioned, her tone sounding as though Sherlock had told her that he had John's blood and hair samples hidden in his sock index as opposed to a few benign pieces of identification (the blood and hair samples were stored safely in the back of the freezer, in a container marked "cat testicles" to ensure that John wouldn't go opening it up).

"Yes, Library card!" Sherlock said impatiently, "Now hurry up! We're wasting precious daylight while you stand about asking stupid questions!" Joan huffed, but headed off back in the direction of the bathroom, leaving Sherlock to his work. He really did need to get John back. She may have her uses, what with being a link to the other universe, but Sherlock was certain that prolonged exposure to Joan's pushy, American self would end badly for either one or both of them. Besides, she hadn't even bothered to _try_ making him eat breakfast. Not that he would have, but still. At least John would have tried.

Sherlock sighed, and then pushed aside all thoughts save those focused on the government databases Mycroft had given him access to. This case couldn't get solved quickly enough.

~x~X~x~

John and Sherlock had just arrived back at their hotel (after returning the car that they’d “borrowed”) when Sherlock’s phone went off. Following a lengthy discussion via text message, they had a plan of action.

Step one of said plan was for John and Sherlock to return to the US. They quickly booked a flight for early the next day, and then were left with sixteen hours to kill beforehand. John took the opportunity to get to know this Sherlock a little better.

“Why aren’t you suffering from horrible jet lag right now?” John asked of the other man, who had set himself up on the floor in the middle of their hotel room, surrounded by newspaper articles, scientific journals, and was scrolling through websites on his tablet. John had been lucky enough to escape the effects of hopping from timezone to timezone through the fact that he’d only been away from London for about eleven hours, and that included the time spent on the plane. 

“I don’t adhere to any particular time zone,” Sherlock said without looking up, “It’s impossible to get jet lag if you don’t follow a twenty-four hour sleep cycle.” 

John supposed that made a twisted sort of sense, though he still held that it was unhealthy to go for such long periods without rest. He looked around at the papers strewn everywhere. He really had no idea what the other man was looking for, and so didn’t see that there was much he could do to help. Deciding to leave Sherlock to whatever it was he was reading about, John sat on his bed and pulled out his mobile.

 **John Watson:** _How’s it going? Baker street still standing?_

He waited for a few minutes before his phone pinged with a reply.

 **Sherlock Holmes:** _Of course. I should be insulted by your lack of faith in me. SH_

John chuckled. He’d asked Sherlock once why he signed all of his texts. “How else would you know who they’re from?” he’d replied, to which John had responded “by the phone number, you prat.” Sherlock had looked thoroughly offended, and explained that, just because a text was from a person’s mobile number didn’t mean it was from the person themselves, as it could easily have been stolen or appropriated in some other way. John had conceded the point, but still found it amusing that every text from his friend was followed by his initials. 

**John Watson:** _It’s not so much a lack of faith in you as it is an abundance in your penchant for destruction. Are you being nice to Joan?_

The reply came almost immediately.

 **Sherlock Holmes:** _Yes, mother. SH_

John rolled his eyes. He hesitated for a moment before sending the next message.

 **John Watson:** _I miss you, you tit._

There was a long pause before any answer came, and John was just starting to compose a joking message to break the tension when his phone beeped again.

 **Sherlock Holmes:** _And I you. SH_

The corner of John’s mouth quirked up into a little smile. Sherlock wasn’t one for displays of emotion, but John knew his friend cared for him. Lately John had even noticed Sherlock watching him sometimes, while he was making tea or reading a book. He wasn’t entirely sure what to make of that. 

By the time they departed for Heathrow, Joan’s Sherlock was practically buzzing with everything that he’d learned about Dr. Lawson and the Everett Project, as it had been named. To be honest, he seemed a little bit manic. John hoped that maybe he’d fall asleep on the aeroplane, and thus avoid the fear from the trip over, killing two birds with one stone.

*

New York was basically exactly the same as it had been when John and Sherlock had left it less than 48 hours ago. The man more familiar with the territory got them a taxi, and they made their way back to Sherlock and Joan’s Brownstone.

“Just a brief stop, Watson!” Sherlock called out, “drop your bags off, and then we must be off!” 

“Off where?” John asked, pushing the holdall he was carrying off to the side of the hallway. 

“To Princeton! Location of one of the top physics programs in the world, and site of the Everett Project. Are you prepared for another driving trip?”

“That depends,” John said warily, “Is it going to involve more car theft?”

Sherlock appeared to contemplate this for a moment, then shook his head. “No, I believe that we can procure a vehicle without resorting to grand theft auto.”

*

They ended up renting a car, thankfully. John hadn't been looking forward to ending up in an American jail in a universe where there was no record of existence. Once again, John drove, though this time on the right (and therefore _wrong_ ) side of the road. It was disconcerting at first, feeling as though he would be heading straight into oncoming traffic, but that feeling eased as they made their way out of New York and into New Jersey.

The lab at Princeton was impressive, and John worried for a moment that they wouldn't be granted access and it would be Baskerville all over again. Fortunately, the structure where they were headed had been cordoned off as a crime scene, and Sherlock had gotten his contact at the police force in New York to call ahead and inform the detective in charge of the investigation that a consultant was on his way.

"Detective Ashley Phelps," the plain-clothes police officer introduced herself after Sherlock and John showed up, "Gregson told me you were coming. Honestly, I'll take whatever help I can get. This one is making very little sense."

"Sherlock Holmes, and this is my associate doctor Watson." He indicated John with his hand.

Detective Phelps scrutinised John closely. "You're not another physicist, are you?" She asked.

John shook his head, "No, medical doctor. Is there something wrong with physicists?"

"Well," Phelps began, "Don't get me wrong, science is the gateway to the future yadda yadda yadda, but good grief. These people may all be brilliant, but some of them seem like they'd forget their heads if they weren't firmly attached to their shoulders." John nodded understandingly, and then Phelps added in a hushed tone, "I don't know how much experience you have with geniuses, doc, but let me tell you, some of their social skills leave a lot to be desired."

John did his best to hold in his laughter. "You don't say?" He flicked his eyes over to Sherlock, who was bouncing impatiently on the balls of his feet.

"If it's quite alright with you, Detective, I'd like to have a look at the lab. This is where Dr. Lawson was last seen, yes?"

Phelps nodded the affirmative, and swept her hand back to the room behind herself in a "go ahead" motion. "Yeah, night before last. He was in working late on something. Last anyone saw of him was around 11 PM, and then it's like he just vanished. No trace of him on the security cameras, no signs of him being to his apartment - his car's still out in the parking lot, and his keys are still in the pocket of his coat, which is hanging on that hook by the door."

"Hmm," Sherlock murmured as he had a look around. "Anyone else caught leaving on the security cameras?"

"Plenty," Phelps said, "But they all had a right to be here. Apparently it's not uncommon for some of the students and researchers here to work through the whole night. The cleaning crew told me that they have to try to work around a lot of them."

Sherlock looked interested by this. "What time do the cleaning crew arrive?"

"Midnight," Phelps answered, "And no, none of them saw Dr. Lawson."

John watched as Sherlock circled around the room, peering under the lab benches and inspecting the rubbish bin. 

"No one has touched this room since Lawson was reported missing yesterday morning?" Sherlock asked.

"Of course not," Phelps said, sounding affronted, "The second this building became a crime scene, it was closed down. No one in or out without authorization."

"Excellent!" Sherlock declared. He beckoned John over to the front of the room. "Tell me, Dr. Watson, what do you see?"

"Uh..." John had a look around, trying to figure out what Sherlock was attempting to have him observe, "Well, there's an empty microwave soup cup on the table there... and the rubbish bin has some crumpled papers in them. Could they have anything on them that might be of use?"

Sherlock remained silent, an expectant look on his face, but John had no idea what the other man wanted from him. Sherlock sighed, obviously disappointed. "Soup cup! Papers in the bin!" he said urgently, "Think, Watson! Nobody's touched the room since yesterday, cleaners come at night, nobody was in here the night before when the cleaners arrived..." he paused, and John finally cottoned on.

"Oh! If the cleaners came into this room, why didn't they dispose of the rubbish!" 

"Precisely!" Sherlock cried. "I'll need to interview the members of the custodial staff who were working here the night before last," he said to Phelps.

"Sure," she said, "I'll set you up at the station. Just don't do anything that could get us sued, okay?"

Sherlock smiled. "Fear not, detective. I shall be the very model of decorum."

John rolled his eyes. If his own Sherlock was anything to go by, John was very glad to not be a member of the Princeton science department's cleaning crew.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a quick note re: updates; I'm away from home for a few days, so have limited access to a computer. I'll update as I can.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock brings Joan along to a crime scene.

Between Joan and Sherlock's perusal of various news and media outlets and his brother's contacts in various world governments, it was quickly established that Dr. Lawson had not been running to escape imprisonment. The Americans had no idea that their missing scientist had sold them out, and the CIA denied any knowledge of an attempt to sell scientific secrets to any of the various groups that would be willing to pay for such information. Joan wasn't entirely sure that they could trust the CIA to be honest, but Sherlock had informed her that sometimes Mycroft _was_ the CIA, and was therefore a reasonably reliable source of information, when he actually chose to share. Joan didn't really know what to make of that, but decided that it wasn't worth the potential headache, and so simply accepted what Sherlock had said.

The problem with figuring this out so quickly was that, once the information was passed along to John and her own Sherlock, Joan was left with a restless consulting detective with nothing to do but wait for news from an alternate dimension. This Sherlock seemed to take boredom even less well than the other, and within an hour of texting their discoveries across the void, he had thrown himself down across the sofa and shouted,

"Bored!"

Joan, who had been looking around on Facebook to see if any of her friends from her own dimension existed in this one, looked over at the man where he lay like some swooning Victorian maiden. "So do something productive," she suggested.

"Such as?" He barely expended enough energy to turn his head to face her.

"I don't know, clean the apartment up a little? Read a book? Go for a jog?" Sherlock snorted. "What do you usually do when you're bored?"

"Watch in horror as my mind slowly atrophies and turns to dust."

Joan rolled her eyes. "You certainly have the theatrics down to an art form," she mumbled.

"You don't understand!" He said, "my mind is like an immensely powerful rocket. When I have a case, when I'm allowed to shoot free of the atmosphere, it can reach places most people cannot. When I have nothing, it's as though the rocket has been chained to the earth, and is quickly rattling itself to pieces with its own power."

That was certainly an interesting way of putting it, if a tad melodramatic. She understood, though. Her own Sherlock was the same way; he had cited it as one of his primary motivations for turning to heroin. "Can you call up whoever you consult for on the force? Ask for a case?"

Sherlock grunted. "I've already texted Lestrade six times." He paused and pulled out his phone, thumbs flying over the screen. "Seven, now."

"You've texted him seven times in an hour?" Joan asked incredulously.

"Yes." 

“Maybe he’s ignoring you out of spite.” Sherlock let out another pathetic sigh. Fortunately, his moping was destined to be short lived, as there was a knock on the front door, and then the sound of someone’s footsteps bounding up the stairs. Sherlock was instantly alert.

A rather attractive man with salt-and-pepper hair knocked on the door to the flat while simultaneously pushing it open. “Sherlock?” he called out.

Sherlock hopped to his feet, eyes alight with restrained intensity. “Lestrade. You have a case.” 

“Yeah, weird one,” the man - Lestrade - said, “but, uh...” he looked over at Joan.

“Ah, yes,” Sherlock said, “Joan Watson, Detective Inspector Lestrade. Lestrade, Joan Watson.”

Lestrade raised an eyebrow. “Watson?”

“I’m a relative of John’s,” she said, rising to shake the offered hand, “Visiting from the States.”

Lestrade nodded, and turned his attention back to Sherlock. “Man found murdered in his home, doors and windows locked, no sign of forced entry. Really weird thing is, he was a suspect in another murder investigation not ten days ago.” 

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. “Murder of whom?”

“His aunt. He lived in her house, she was found smothered with a pillow in her bed a week ago.”

Joan found herself getting interested in the case, and piped up with her own question. “You said he _was_ a suspect. Is the past-tense because he’s dead, or was he cleared already?”

Lestrade gave her a confused look before turning to Sherlock, who waved his hand dismissively and said, “She’s my replacement John while he’s away.” as though that explained everything. 

Apparently it did, as Lestrade simply shrugged, and turned back to Joan. “He had an alibi for the night she was killed. He was on the other end of town, at a pub. Security cameras and CCTV all confirm that there was no possible way for him to have killed her.”

“He had motive though,” Sherlock said, already pulling on his suit jacket and donning his shoes.

“Yeah, his inheritance. With his aunt out of the way, he got the house and a nice chunk of change. I’ll let you have a look at the scene and draw the rest of your conclusions yourself.” Sherlock nodded, and grabbed his coat off of the hook by the door, then turned back to Joan expectantly.

“What?” She asked.

“You’re my replacement John,” he said in the manner of someone explaining something obvious to a very small child, as though that explained everything.

“You want me to come with you?”

“Only if you’re not going to be this dim the whole time.”

Joan glared at him, but stood. Just because she wasn’t in her own universe didn’t mean she couldn’t continue on being a consulting detective. 

“Right,” Lestrade said, clearly not quite understanding what was going on between the two of them, “Do you want to get a ride with me? I’m driving the Mercedes, not a panda car.” 

Sherlock nodded regally, and gestured for Lestrade to lead the way. Joan grabbed the jacket she’d picked up, and zipped up her boots, adding a solid three inches to her height, which still left her more than half a foot shorter than Sherlock. People shouldn’t be allowed to be that tall. It was unnatural.

*

The crime scene was a beautiful row house, complete with a flower garden in front. The effect of the facade was somewhat diminished, however, by the abundance of police officers and crime scene tape. Sherlock disembarked from the car and immediately swept into the thick of it, Joan hot on his heels. This was something familiar. A crime scene was a crime scene, regardless of country or continent. She could do this.

Inside the house, things were just as chaotic as outside. Forensics technicians milled around taking photographs and samples, and in the heart of it all, lying strangled on a sofa, was the victim. He was in his mid-forties, fat and balding, and his hair looked like it hadn't been washed in almost a week. All in all, he gave the impression of someone without much pride in himself. THe bruises around his neck just added to the picture of a sad end to a sad life.

Joan came to a halt as Sherlock was blocked from entering the scene by a stormy looking woman dressed in the plain-clothes outfit of a detective.

"Who invited you?" she spat at Sherlock, who just stared coolly in response.

"Your fellow DI, Sally. If you have a problem with my presence then I suggest you take it up with Lestrade. Now, if you'll excuse me." He breezed past her, leaving Joan face to face with the confrontational Detective Inspector.

"Who're you?" she asked bluntly, "Freak finally chase Watson off? You his new punching bag?"

Joan frowned in confusion. "Do you mean Sherlock?"

"Yeah, the arsehole in the great bloody coat. What're you doing hanging around with someone like him?"

Joan couldn't help but feel a wave of indignation. _Someone like him?_ Yes, this Sherlock was a little difficult to get along with, and could come across as an arrogant jerk sometimes, but that was rather unnecessary. "I'm 'hanging around' with 'someone like him' because he is a brilliant detective and I can learn a lot from him."

The Detective - Sally - raised her eyebrows. "You a friend of John's then? I didn't realise he was recruiting for the Sherlock Holmes fanclub."

Joan wasn't given a chance to respond, as Sherlock bellowed out "Joan!" She shot Sally a frosty look and turned to where the consulting detective was crouched by the body. "What do you see?" Sherlock asked.

Joan peered at the victim, taking in the picture that he presented. "Well, obviously it was strangulation - look at the bruising on his neck," she started off. "It doesn't look like there was much of a struggle. Did he know his attacker, maybe?"

Sherlock nodded, smiling slightly. "Yes, I believe he did. In fact, he let the murderer in, served him a beer, and then sat and spoke for a while before he was killed." Lestrade had entered the room by this point.

"How'd you figure all that, Sherlock?" he asked.

"Look!" Sherlock exclaimed, pointing at the coffee table and the floor beside it, "Just look! Two beer bottles, one knocked over but not to the ground, on the table next to the victim, one shattered against the wall, both with some liquid remaining in them. The first was toppled when the table was jostled by the victim's-"

"Alexander Fisher," Lestrade supplied.

"By Mr. Fisher's foot, when he was already lying on the sofa, being strangled. The murderer got very close before attacking, which Fisher didn't try to prevent. He was familiar with this person - a man, judging by the handspan - the beer bottles were almost empty before they spilled - look at the size of the residue left from the puddles - so they sat and spoke for a time."

Joan listened intently, and began to see a possibility take shape. "Maybe there was something that the murderer _wanted_ from Fisher. He came here to get it, or convince Fisher to give it to him."

Sherlock shot her a look that was almost a smile. "A promising theory. When Mr. Fisher refused to capitulate, the murderer grew angry. That is why the second beer bottle is shattered against the wall. While still sitting on the sofa, the murderer swept his arm across the table in anger, sending the bottle flying towards the wall. We know it was the murderer, because if Fisher had done it, it would have been swept in the opposite direction."

"What could the murderer have wanted?" Lestrade asked, "Fisher hadn't taken possession of his inheritance yet; he was broke. Been unemployed for almost three years. That's why he was living with his aunt, she was his only family."

"What did he do before he was unemployed?" Sherlock asked. Joan left him to his own devices, and looked around the house a bit, being careful not to disturb anything that might be evidence. The living room opened up onto the kitchen, and then there was a bedroom in back. She poked her head in the door.

The bedroom was obviously that of a single man. The bed was unmade, clothing was piled in one corner of the floor, and a small mountain of dirty dishes dominated a chair in another. Dominating one wall was a desk holding a very flashy computer. This seemed to be where Alexander Fisher had spent most of his time, considering the empty drink cans, protein bar wrappers, and takeout containers that were concentrated around the desk.

Joan's explorations were interrupted by a forensic tech entering the room behind her.

"Hey, you new?" The man had a vaguely weasely look to his face, and Joan was almost instantly put off by his sneer.

"Uh, yeah, sort of," she said, "I'm just here as a consultant."

"Phillip Anderson," the tech said, "I'd shake your hand, but..." He held up a glove-covered hand. Joan gave him a thin-lipped smile.

"Joan Watson."

Anderson's eyebrows shot up. "Watson? You're related to the freak's little friend?" 

Joan was starting to form a picture of what Sherlock faced when he worked with these people, and it wasn't a very nice one. If the man was teased and called "freak" whenever he worked, she could see why he might be a little bit prickly. For her part, it just made her angry. "Y'know, everyone keeps calling him that," she said, glaring. Anderson didn't take the hint.

"Well, yeah, have you _met_ the guy? He practically drools over the bodies at crime scenes. It's not normal. I still think he wasn't innocent of that kidnapping he was arrested for a few years back. He's a psychopath."

Sherlock, of course, took that exact moment to arrive behind the other man. "Anderson, don't you have an intern to sexually harass?" Anderson sneered, but turned and left the room. Sherlock looked calm and dettached as he marched past Joan to examine the bedroom, but she knew better than to assume he was completely unaffected by what the other man had said.

"Sherlock..." she started. He whirled to face her and cut her off, his expression icy.

"Shut up," he bit out, "I can't think with all this blathering." Joan fell silent, and Sherlock turned back around. Joan watched silently as Sherlock did his own look through the bedroom. It didn't take long before he nodded sharply, swept out of the room, and went to Lestrade, Joan hot on his heels. 

"So?" the DI led with, "What've you got?"

"I need all of his email and instant messaging records," Sherlock said, "If the murderer was a friend, he's likely been communicated with via the internet."

"You sure?" Lestrade asked. Sherlock gave him a withering look.

"Of course I'm sure. Look at the man, look how he's lived. He's a slob who only leaves the house when he absolutely has to. He spent most of his time at his computer. Check his records, look through the server, you'll find the murderer there."

"And what are you going to do?"

Sherlock smirked. "Joan and I are going to find whoever killed Fisher's aunt."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick edit to correct Anderson's first name! Obviously it's gone AU since the premiere of Series 3, but I couldn't just leave in the wrong name...


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On two sides of the Atlantic Ocean, and in two different universes, Holmes and Watson conduct two very different investigations.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone for the kind comments and kudos! I'll endeavour to continue making frequent updates as thanks.
> 
> Quick disclaimer: I play online games, and have nothing but love for the vast majority of my fellow gamers! Any representations of such contained in these next few chapters represent neither my own views, nor the gamer community as a whole
> 
> (Chapter reposted, because I'm an idiot.)

John had always known that his Sherlock was fluent in several languages. He’d spoken flawless French with a witness one time, and John had once walked in on him and Mycroft arguing in what sounded like German. It shouldn’t have surprised him, therefore, when Joan’s Sherlock interviewed the Spanish-speaking members of the facility’s cleaning crew (nearly all of them) in Spanish that would have gotten him mistaken for a native speaker. Shouldn’t have surprised him, but did nonetheless. 

John, for his part, spent the majority of the interviews sitting quietly and attempting to appear non-threatening. It wasn’t a difficult thing to manage, when one was barely over five foot six and dressed in a woolen jumper. Lestrade had once referred to the doctor’s choice of clothing as his “mild-mannered civilian costume”, after watching John tackle a suspect and soundly defeat the large man in hand-to-hand combat. He’d explained at the time that it wasn’t a costume; he just liked being warm. 

Sherlock finished up talking with the last custodian, an elderly gentleman who was mostly deaf and had needed to be shouted at to understand what was being said, and turned to face John, smiling from ear to ear.

“Thoughts?” he asked. John looked at him dubiously.

“Well,” he began, “Mostly I’m thinking ‘I would have a lot more to think about if I spoke Spanish.’ How about you just share what you’ve figured out?” Sherlock appeared disappointed that John wasn’t having as much fun as he was, but shook it off fairly quickly.

“The reason that the room Lawson was working in hadn’t been cleaned is that the members of the staff working in that section of the building believed that the room had been taken care of already.” John raised an eyebrow in question. “Two of the women we spoke with, well, _I_ spoke with, saw a man dressed in a janitor’s uniform emerge from that room. They assumed that he had cleaned already, and so skipped to the next stop in their schedule.”

“It was the other Dr. Lawson?” John confirmed, “The one from my dimension? Why didn’t the cleaners realise that he wasn’t a member of their crew?” 

“Simple enough mistake for them to make,” Sherlock answered, “Not a great deal of job security in the field of custodial engineering. Turnover happens quickly enough that a new man showing up one night isn’t something new. It was the perfect way for Lawson to leave undetected. He simply slipped out alongside the rest of the crew.”

“So, basically what you’re saying is, we know that he got out unseen, and now have no idea where he might be.” Sherlock’s enthusiasm seemed to deflate a little.

“Well, yes. For now. But we know _how_ he got out, so now we know where to look to see what direction he headed in after leaving the lab.” 

Sure enough, security footage offered a slightly-fuzzy view of a man matching the picture of the other Dr. Lawson, as sent to John’s phone by his Sherlock. The physicist split off from the main body of the group after exiting the building, and headed for a bus stop, then boarded a bus.

“Got you,” Sherlock whispered, and John answered the man’s smile with one of his own. The game was on.

~x~X~x~

Sherlock lay on the sofa back at 221B, hands steepled in front of his face, eyes gazing towards the ceiling but not really looking at anything at all. He was thinking.

He had an idea about what was going on in the Fisher case, but had no real proof, besides his own observations, and those tended not to fare terribly well in front of a jury. Most people were idiots, and couldn’t grasp the logic behind his statements without hard evidence.

He suspected that Fisher had hired someone to kill his aunt, and thus cause him to inherit her house and the money that she had left to him in her will. It wasn’t much of a stretch - they had been each other’s only living family, and nobody else had much in the way of motive for the death of Lydia Fisher. She had been a piano teacher, able to support herself through the combination of her chosen career and money left to her by her late husband. Aside from students who weren’t overly fond of practicing, she seemed to have been universally well-liked. His interviews with the neighbours had painted a picture of a witty, cheerful older woman who had kept her yard neat and always had kind greetings for those with whom she was acquainted. Essentially, Mrs. Fisher had been the sort of bland, boring person who almost never died for interesting reasons.

_Alexander_ Fisher, however, was not spoken of quite so highly. He was the sort of human waste that leached off of family resources and could be expected to amount to very little over the course of his sad life. Even if he hadn’t been murdered, he’d likely have been dead before sixty from some form of heart disease. There were only so many microwave dinners and highly-caffeinated canned beverages that a body could withstand, after all. 

If Sherlock were a simple detective, like Lestrade, or just plain simple, like Anderson, he’d have jumped instantly to “hired hit man”. On the surface, it appeared to make sense. The Aunt had been killed in her bed while Alexander just happened to be out (for the only time that week) in a public area that would provide an easy alibi. Then, when Alexander didn’t pay up, the killer had turned on him. It was a perfectly sound theory. If you were an idiot.

Sherlock was not an idiot, and so he could see the inconsistencies. For one, a hit man trying to get a client to pay up would not have sat and peacefully chatted with the man over a beer before committing the murder. Secondly, a dead client was unlikely to ever make good on the debt, and so it was not advantageous to leap straight to killing - there would have been some threatening, escalating to torture over the course of several weeks, to give Fisher time to get his money. This had not been a professional, which left Sherlock trying to puzzle out who it could be, and how Fisher had intended to pay them.

"Hey, Sherlock," Joan said, interrupting his train of thought, "Are you hungry? I was thinking about making myself a smoothie, you want one?"

"No."

"When was the last time you ate?" Joan asked, giving him a dubious look. Sherlock sighed, and thought for a moment.

"I'm fairly confident it was within the last thirty six hours."

"Thirty six- do you have any idea how unhealthy it is to go that long without eating?" Joan demanded.

"I've already had this conversation," Sherlock drawled. He had absolutely no interest in talking about something as boring as _food._ He had a case to focus on.

"What?" Joan said, "No you haven't. When did we have this conversation?"

Sherlock took a deep breath, bemoaning the necessity of human interaction. "I didn't say _we_ have already had this conversation, I said _I_ have already had this conversation. With John. I have no desire to go through it all over again with you. Leave me be, I'm thinking."

Instead of leaving, Joan perched on the arm of the sofa by his feet. "Fine, you don't want to eat with me, I'll think with you."

Sherlock used his best withering look on her, to no effect. "The idea that you would be able to keep up with my mind is laughable."

"Try me," Joan deadpanned.

"Alexander Fisher got someone else to kill his aunt, then that person killed him. It wasn't a professional killer, it was someone that Fisher was acquainted with, close enough to have a beer together. This person carried out the murder of Lydia Fisher, and then when Alexander failed to produce payment, they turned on him.

"Scotland Yard can get DNA off of the beer bottle, but it's useless without someone to compare it to. Fisher must have communicated with this person, both before and after his aunt's murder. I've gone over his phone, email, and instant messaging records, though, and there's nothing. There isn't even a possible code that could have been used to arrange an assassination. In fact, he barely spoke, texted, or typed more than two sentences to another person in the past two weeks."

"So..." Joan began, "He spoke with someone enough to arrange his aunt's murder, then again after the fact, when he presumably didn't pay up with whatever his end of the deal was."

"Yes, that's what I just said."

Joan raised her eyebrows sceptically. "And you can't figure out how he was talking to this person."

"Exactly!" Sherlock bounded to his feet and began pacing back and forth in front of the sofa. "They must have spoken after the aunt's murder, before Alexander's. They didn't meet in person, he hadn't left the house all week! He was a loner, he had no friends - the three most used phone numbers in his mobile were a pizzeria, a chinese restaurant, and his now deceased aunt! How was he in contact with the assassin?"

Joan looked thoughtful. "He spent most of his time at home, playing video games, right?"

"Yes," Sherlock bit out.

"Including World of Warcraft."

"What?" His head snapped around.

"World of Warcraft, it's this online game, really popular. People get really into it. I actually know someone who does addiction counselling for people who gave up their whole lives to keep playing. There were cases for multiple expansion packs for that game on Alexander Fisher's desk."

"Could you please just make your point?" Sherlock snapped. He had no idea what she was trying to get at, and the distraction was starting to annoy him.

"Those games have chat systems. They can even be private. Players can talk with any other person who's online in the game."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "You're suggesting that Alexander Fisher arranged his aunt's murder by a chat in a computer game?" The question wasn't one of disbelief, more surprise at the idiocy of the common man.

Joan shrugged. "People have sex using them, don't see why someone couldn't use it to talk about a murder."

Sherlock's mind was already racing, accessing every piece of data that he had about online communication. Anything typed on one computer and then sent to another had to pass through the game's system, translated from English, to binary, and then back again. And transmitted through... Sherlock's face stretched into a grin. "Joan!" He grabbed her shoulders and pulled her to stand, ignoring the startled expression she had. "Do you know what this means?"

She was leaning back slightly, attempting to pull her head away from Sherlock's. "I think it means you need lessons in personal space."

"What? No! It means that, on a server somewhere, there are complete records of every conversation had between Alexander Fisher and his hitman-turned-murderer! All we need to do is subpoena those chatlogs! This is perfect!"

Joan smiled bemusedly. "Happy to help."

"Hand me my mobile! I need to text Lestrade and get him to contact whatever company runs the server." Joan remained where she was standing, and raised an eyebrow. Sherlock groaned. "Fine! I'll get it myself!" She smiled, and turned towards the kitchen.

"Great! You do that, I'll make us some smoothies. Can't read through chatlogs on an empty stomach!"

"That's not scientific fact!" Sherlock called after her, but either she didn't hear, or chose to ignore him. Sherlock sighed. He just knew that she'd never let him hear the end of it if he didn't eat. _Fine,_ he thought, _I'll drink half. That should get her to leave me alone._ With that decided, he went to find his mobile. He had to text Lestrade, and it was high time to check in and see what John was up to.

~x~X~x~

John was completely done with driving in the United States. Passing on the left was just too strange, and the other drivers were so inconsiderate! He and Sherlock had finally arrived back at the Brownstone when his text message notification went off.

_Any success in finding Dr. Lawson? SH_

John sent him a quick reply, detailing what they knew so far.

_Tracked him from a bus to a train to another bus. He's somewhere in NYC. I'll let you know when we have more._

Joan's Sherlock had already disappeared further into the house when John got inside. "Sherlock?" he called, "Where'd you go?"

"Back here!" came the other man's voice from the room by the kitchen. John followed the sound, and came upon the detective surrounded by what looked like the lovechild of an atlas and John Venn. He hadn't seen so many Venn diagrams since the philosophy elective he took during his undergrad.

"Woah," John breathed, "What _is_ all this?"

"This," Sherlock said with a flourish of his arm, "Is New York City!"

"Well, yeah, I can see _that_. But what's with all the circles?"

"Radii!"

John raised an eyebrow, skeptical. "Radii of _what,_ exactly?"

"Bus stops, train stations, hotels, hostels, empty buildings," Sherlock listed, "I've been working on this map for almost a month, haven't had a chance to use it until now. It's very exciting."

To John, it looked like a nightmare of geography and geometry, but what did he know? "What's it for?"

Sherlock smiled, obviously thrilled at the opportunity to explain his genius. "Through the use of human behavioural statistics, and some rather complex mathematics, I have postulated a theory about the predictability of human migration and dispersion patterns."

"And in English that means?"

Sherlock sighed. "I can use the stops along the route of the last bus Lawson was seen getting on, in correlation with the locations of various hotels and other places a person could stay, and come up with a list of the most probable locations that he could be hiding out in."

"Really?" John asked incredulously.

"Yes," Sherlock answered confidently, "Well, in theory. It will help us narrow our focus of areas to search, at least. It would be impossible to canvas the entire city of New York to find one scientist who doesn't even want to be found."

"Sounds completely unbelievable, so it'll probably end up working. You Holmeses seem to have a knack for the unbelievable." Sherlock nodded in acknowledgement of the compliment. "Well, you do your math thing. I'm going to explore your kitchen. Any requests?"

"I'm not eating right now."

John frowned. "Yes, you are. So, either you tell me what you'd like, or you eat whatever I decide to make you." 

"You couldn't _make_ me do anything," Sherlock scoffed. 

John levelled him with a steely glare. "Don't test me."

Both men stared each other down for a moment, before Sherlock huffed and gave in. "Fine! If it pleases you, I'll eat something. No white bread, pastries, pasta, or muffins though! They make me sluggish."

John nodded shortly, and headed back for the kitchen. If he couldn't make sure his own Sherlock was eating, then he could at least take care of Joan's. He just hoped this Sherlock didn't mind beans on brown toast. A gourmet chef, John Watson was not.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and Joan learn more than either of them could ever have wanted to know about chat speak, and Joan gets to see a little bit more of the real Sherlock Holmes.
> 
> John meets Captain Gregson.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A million thank yous to everyone who's commented and left kudos! You're all awesome. Hope you enjoy this latest installment!

Joan could practically feel her eyes starting to cross just _looking_ at the pile of papers she was preparing to read through, it was so big. After (extremely thoroughly) cleaning out the blender and making smoothies for herself and Sherlock, she had been roped into assisting the aforementioned detective go through all of Alexander Fisher’s communications through the World of Warcraft chat system, as provided to them by Blizzard’s servers, care of Detective Inspector Lestrade. 

Unfortunately, it seemed that Mr. Fisher had something of an unhealthy obsession with the game, as there were more chat logs for the previous three weeks than Joan thought possible for one person to have produced. Apparently the man had played for nearly twenty hours a day, every day, and was actively chatting for the majority of that time.

“He seems to have some sort of code built out of acronyms,” Sherlock mused from his position on the couch, “Look at this: ‘FFS Gary L2P! IDC wut ur DR is. Stop pulling aggro with AoE or ur gonna die!’ Is this even English?”

Joan bit her lip to avoid laughing. Knowing Sherlock, he’d take it personally. “It’s chat speak, common to most MMORPGs. I’m not sure about some of them, but L2P is ‘learn to play’, IDC is ‘I don’t care’ and I’m pretty sure FFS is ‘for fuck’s sake’. Sounds like Gary was doing something stupid and was going to get himself killed, in game.”

“Hmm,” Sherlock muttered, “I wonder if there are any linguistic studies on this evolution of the English language. Appalling as it may be, it could be useful to know about for future reference.” 

“Sherlock has a habit of abbreviating most of his texts to the point of indecipherability,” Joan said, “So if you get stuck on something, I might be able to help.” Sherlock sniffed dismissively. She shrugged, and kept scanning through the section of papers she’d been given, keeping an eye out for mentions of aunts, smothering, murder, or the like. Unfortunately, keeping an eye out for mentions of a real-life murder in the chat for a video game was like trying to find a specific needle in a stack of needles.

“This game revolves entirely around killing,” she complained nearly forty five minutes later, “How am I supposed to tell the difference between when they’re talking about ‘murdering’ an in-game character or actually murdering a real person?”

“You’re focusing on finding the wrong things,” Sherlock said. “Don’t look for him planning the murder, look for him speaking about his aunt to someone, maybe he mentioned his inheritance or similar. It will help us narrow down our list of suspects, and diminish our stack of reading materials considerably.”

It was solid advice, though completely unnecessary, as it turned out. Sherlock was the one to discover their first lead.

“Joan!” he called, “I think I’ve found something! He’s complaining about his aunt to someone with the username ‘Darkhamer67’ - presumably a misspelling of ‘darkhammer’, though both would be equally as stupid.” 

“What’s he saying?” Joan asked, moving over to perch on the edge of the armrest and read over Sherlock’s shoulder.

“Blah blah blah trapped, blah blah blah wish she’d hurry up and croak, blah blah blah money in her will.”

“I assume you’re paraphrasing.” 

Sherlock just lifted an unimpressed eyebrow. 

“Well, is he saying anything incriminating? Anything that makes it sound like he’d doing more than whining over the internet?”

“Not yet,” Sherlock answers, “But I’ll keep looking. You go through your stack, pull out any conversations with Darkhamer. He’s our best lead so far.”

She did just that, but the results of her search just made things more frustrating. Alexander, who had the username “Kordoba528”, mostly discussed battle tactics and planned raids with this “Darkhamer” fellow, but there was nothing that stood out to Joan as saying “how about I pay you a couple thousand bucks and you kill my aunt for me”. She voiced this to Sherlock.

“All he talks about more than once is a plan of attack for some big boss or something. There’s nothing relevant.” Sherlock’s head popped up to look at her, eyes shrewd.

“Which boss? Read some of it to me.”

“Okay, uh... ‘Hag Queen of Marsh in lair btwn 4 - 10pm. Obtain key from shared vault, use stealth ability.’” Sherlock looked thoughtful for a moment, then bent down over his computer, typing swiftly. After a moment, his frown turned into a smirk. “What?” Joan asked.

“There is no “Hag Queen of the Marsh” in this game. They’re speaking in code. Not a terribly clever one, either.”

“So, the Hag Queen is Fisher’s aunt. Wow, he _really_ didn’t like her, huh? There’s another boss they mention a few times, too...” She flipped back through the pages. “Here we go, ‘Maleficent Bonesucker’. Sounds pleasant.”

“Let me see,” Sherlock snapped, snatching the page from Joan’s hand. 

“Certainly, Sherlock,” she said sweetly, “I’d be happy to hand over the paper I’m holding, since you asked so nicely.” He grunted, and kept reading. She rolled her eyes, but couldn’t help the little exasperated smile that tugged at the corner of her mouth. He might have been rude, abrupt, and socially inept, but this Sherlock was starting to grow on her. Heaven knew why. 

He seemed to be completely immersed in the chat logs, so Joan grabbed her cell phone and texted her own Sherlock, feeling a sudden pang of homesickness and worry for her friend.

**Joan:** Any luck finding Lawson? How are things at home?

It was only a moment before Sherlock answered.

**Sherlock:** [Prhps. Mny plc 2 chk. Hav ppl on lkout @ svrl pssble loc. John not as gd @ cookng as U bt cmplns less re:mess/clning. Bs R doing wll. Euglasia Watsonia flrshng + Rtcl 4 apicltr jrnl w8ing till aftr U rtrn. Gd case w OSH?]()

“When you’re done with that code, Sherlock,” Joan said, “Maybe you can have a look at this one.” She held her phone out.

“Hmm? What code?” he looked up, interested, and squinted at the screen for a moment before taking the mobile from her hand, a horrified expression on his face. “Good lord, what _is_ this? This is the way that your Sherlock speaks when texting? This is appalling! Wait, apiculture? Euglasia Watsonia? There’s a bee named for the Watson clan in your universe?”

Joan couldn’t help but smile, remembering watching the birth of the new species and being told that Sherlock was naming it for her. “Not for the clan, for me.”

Sherlock looked... shocked? Impressed? Perhaps a little of both. “How did you manage that?”

“Sherlock did it. He had this really rare bee, and it bred with some other bee despite the fact that it shouldn’t have been able to, and since he discovered it, he got to name it. He named it after me.”

Sherlock’s face went quickly from astonished, to concerned, to shuttered. He handed Joan’s phone back silently, and turned his attention back to the chat transcripts, saying nothing more than, “Ah, I see.” Joan didn’t know what to make of the sudden change in mood, but hesitated about trying to push a Sherlock to talk about things he didn’t want to address. The violin being set on fire and the letters in the blender came immediately to mind. Still, she couldn’t hold herself back.

“What’s wrong?” She asked, “Is it a bee thing? I guess it would be a little difficult to cultivate them here, but it’s not impossible.” She knew that he wasn’t actually upset about the other Sherlock discovering a species of bee and himself not, but she also knew that Sherlock loved being right, and the only thing better than being right was telling someone else why they were wrong. 

“I don’t care about the bees,” Sherlock said sullenly, not looking up from the paper he held.

“Sure you’re not jealous? He’s having an article published in some apiculture journal and everything.”

“It’s not the bees!” Sherlock insisted.

“Then what is it?” Joan pressed. Sherlock frowned, and she was reminded of a sulky teenager.

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Bullshit.” Sherlock’s eyebrows rose a little, apparently he was startled by Joan calling him on his crap. “It obviously matters, or you’d just tell me what’s made you go all broody.”

“Broody?” He asked sceptically, his eyes shifting over to look at her.

“Yes. Broody. Now, you either tell me what’s wrong, or I’ll...” She searched for a punishment that would actually have some sort of effect on the mad detective. “I’ll confiscate your phone again.”

“I’ll just take it back.”

“I’ll put it somewhere you’ll never find it.”

“I highly doubt that you would be able to come up with a hiding place that I couldn’t deduce in less than ten minutes.”

Joan stared him down fiercely. “Try me.” Sherlock met her glare with one of his own, and there was a short staring contest, before he looked away, an almost sad expression flitting briefly across his face. “Sherlock?” Joan prompted gently.

“He named a bee after you,” the man said quietly.

Joan drew her eyebrows together in confusion. “I’m... not sure I follow.”

“He named a _species_ after you! He complimented your cooking! He inquires after your wellbeing, he’s teaching you the science of deduction, he pushes you to take on cases on your own, to learn!”

Joan thought she was starting to understand, but remained silent, waiting for Sherlock to finish. 

“I’m awful,” he said quietly. “I keep body parts in the fridge. I insult John on a regular basis, I belittle his intelligence, I forget him at crime scenes! I’m a terrible friend.” He took a deep breath before lifting his gaze back up to meet Joan’s. “Why would he even want to come back?” 

Joan didn’t know what to say. She’d never have expected to see this sort of emotion from the cold, aloof detective with whom she’d been stuck for the past few days. It made a sort of sense, though. This Sherlock clearly did not make friends easily, and he was apparently all too certain that those he did make had no real reason to stay. 

“This is John’s home,” Joan said, hoping that she sounded reassuring, “He wants to come back because he _belongs_ here. He’s your friend because he _wants_ to be.” Sherlock didn’t look terribly convinced. “You jumped off a building to save his life, Sherlock. That’s pretty big. Bee-species big.” His expression was still doubtful, but a little less hopeless. 

“Besides, my Sherlock isn’t all that wonderful, either. Did I tell you about the time that he hired an actor to take me for dinner and pretend to be his father? Or how he kept throwing things at me and pretending to be a home invader to teach me self defense? I talk about the nice parts because they’re the things that I’m fond of. John feels the same way about you. I’m sure of it.”

“Speculation,” Sherlock muttered. 

“No,” Joan said firmly, “It’s not speculation, it’s fact. Did you look back through the text messages we sent each other while I had your phone?”

Sherlock looked vaguely insulted. “Of course I did.”

“And what did John say to me about you?”

“That you should expect me to be rude and take my insults with a grain of salt.”

Joan sighed. “Aside from that.” He didn’t answer. Good god, it was like coaxing water from a rock. “He asked me to take care of you, to make sure you’re okay. Because he cares about you. Because he’s your friend.” 

Sherlock looked thoughtful for a moment, and then offered Joan a small almost-smile, just a quirk of one corner of his mouth. “I suppose that your logic may not be entirely without merit,” he conceded. 

“That almost sounded like a compliment.” She grinned at him, and then nodded sharply. “Right. Now, that’s enough moping about and self-pitying for one day, I think. Let’s go find us an Orc named Darkhamer67, and figure out why he murdered Alexander Fisher.”

“A sound plan,” Sherlock responded, and they both turned their attention back to the chat logs, each with a little smile on their faces.

~x~X~x~

In terms of finding a fugitive criminal, John found New York to be remarkably similar to London in most respects. They were both cities with over eight million people living in them both contained seemingly endless potential hiding places, and both had large criminal underbellies hidden below the surface. These all worked to make it very difficult to find someone who didn’t want to be found. They both, however, also had a distinct advantage on the side of the law, in the form of Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective.

Said detective was currently leading John into the office of a Captain on the New York City police force, who John had gathered was this Sherlock’s equivalent of DI Lestrade.

“Holmes,” The officer greeted John’s companion, standing up from behind his desk, “How was New Jersey?”

“Productive,” Sherlock answered. “Detective Phelps sends her regards, and reminds you that you still owe her ten dollars. She didn’t tell me why, but I’ve deduced that she was referring to a bet the two of you made, likely in relation to the love life of a colleague.”

The other man smiled. “Yeah, that’s Phelps alright. I’ll tell her there’s still a month left before the bet’s over, and I’m not paying her a cent before then. Who’s your friend?”

“Ah, yes, Captain Gregson, may I introduce John Watson, visiting from London.” John accepted the offered handshake.

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Watson. Any relation to Joan?”

“It’s ‘Doctor’ Watson, actually,” Sherlock corrected, “And no, they are not related, just a coincidence of naming.”

“Doctor Watson,” Gregson corrected himself.

“Just John, please.” The Captain nodded, and then motioned for Sherlock and John to sit in the chairs facing his desk, before returning to his own seat, and turning to Sherlock.

“So, you said something about a possible murderer hiding out in New York?” Sherlock nodded. “Any leads on where?”

“I’m glad you asked!” Sherlock said, pulling up the tattered briefcase he’d been carrying and zipping it open.

“Now you’ve done it,” John muttered. Sherlock, meanwhile, was pulling out sections of the map he’d been mulling over earlier.

“What the hell is all this?” Gregson asked bemusedly. 

“Exactly what it looks like!” Sherlock exclaimed.

“The ghost of high school trigonometry, come to haunt me in my middle age?” The Captain suggested. John snickered. It was too bad that he couldn’t introduce Gregson to his universe’s Lestrade. They seemed like they’d get along well. 

Sherlock frowned. “No! It’s a very complicated and extremely ingenious use of behavioural science and advanced mathematics to predict human migration and dispersion patterns!” Gregson just raised an eyebrow, and John wished that it wouldn’t have been terrible manners to grab his mobile and take a picture of Sherlock’s face right at that moment.

“Looks like a chunk of map with a bunch of circles on it, to me.”

Sherlock glowered and rolled his eyes, but summed things up anyhow. “Regardless of _what_ it is - which is nothing short of brilliant - what it _tells_ me is that the man for whom we are looking will most likely be found either here,” he stabbed the paper with his finger, “here,” stab, “here,” stab, “or here,” stab. 

“Alright, I know better than to question whether or not this is accurate. Whadda you need me for?” 

“We believe that this man is going to attempt to sell information to groups that would use said information to do great harm, potentially on a global scale. It’s likely that he’d be meeting with an intermediary, someone who can liaise with higher-ups in a criminal organisation that would then provide the information to whatever unsavoury world power or third party is willing to pay for it,” Sherlock explained.

“So you’re looking for gang activity near the areas you’ve pointed out to me,” Gregson said. 

“Precisely. More specifically, gangs with either suspected or known affiliations with hostile foreign powers or terrorist organisations,” Sherlock confirmed. 

“Yeah, okay, we can do that. I’ll send you a file with our gang activity maps.” He clicked around on his computer for a moment before addressing Sherlock again, “You figure out where this guy is, you tell us before you go rushing off, though, okay? Gangs like this are bad news. And not ‘beat you up and leave you bleeding in a back alley’’ bad news, either. We’re talking ‘never find your body’ bad news.”

“Of course, Captain,” Sherlock reassured the man, “We’ll be in touch. Come along, John.” John bid Gregson farewell, and followed the consulting detective out the door and to the street. Sherlock was already scanning through whatever data he’d been emailed by the time they got into a cab.

“You were lying through your teeth, weren’t you?” John asked, his voice hushed so that the driver wouldn’t hear him, “We don’t want Lawson arrested before we can get Joan and me switched back, so we can’t call the police in on this. You’re going to go rushing off, chasing after Lawson, and charge headlong into some sort of gathering of violent criminals, all by yourself, aren’t you?”

“Of course not,” Sherlock said dismissively, “I won’t be by myself.” He looked up at John with a mischievous look on his face. “I’ll have you with me.”

John groaned and let his head fall back against the headrest. God save him from mad genius consulting detectives with no sense of self-preservation. “If you’re determined to go through with this - which I know you are - then I have one condition.”

“And that would be?” Sherlock asked, sounding genuinely curious.

“I’m going to need a gun.”

Sherlock grinned.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two cases head towards their end-points.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you _so much_ to everyone who has left comments and kudos. It's absolutely unbelievable how much feedback I've gotten on this little story! I love you all!
> 
> I'm sorry that this chapter is so late. It was Canadian Thanksgiving the weekend before last, and we had loads of family up, and then midterms started, etc etc. It's here now! I hope you all enjoy!

Several hours before nightfall, Sherlock had finished piecing together what information he could from the dialogue between Fisher and his accomplice. He would almost have been impressed by the thought that both men had put into their scheme, if it weren't so poorly executed and incredibly stupid. Joan had given up on reading through chat logs after a while, and had gone... somewhere. Sherlock hadn't been listening when she'd told him what she was doing. 

Taking advantage of the silence, Sherlock fired off a quick text to Lestrade requesting the identity of "Darkhamer67", and turned his attention to the foot experiment he'd finally gotten around to starting. John had objected to having a “fish tank full of dead person” in the kitchen, and Sherlock had ended up capitulating under threat of something unpleasant being done to his violin, so the tank was in his bedroom, a space that he usually preferred to keep experiment-free. It was here, therefore, that Joan found him upon her return from... wherever she had been. 

“Hey Sherlock, any news on- oh god. Is that the foot from-? You know what, I’ll be in the living room. Come on out whenever you have some information on the murderer. And wash your hands before you touch anything.”

Sherlock sighed. Honestly, for an ex-doctor, who must have worked on cadavers during medical school, she had surprisingly delicate sensibilities. He finished pouring the drain cleaner into the water and removed his gloves just in time for his phone to ring.

“Lestrade,” he answered, after glancing at the Caller ID. 

“Sherlock,” came the Detective Inspector’s voice from the earpiece, “Got a name for you for this Darkhamer bloke: Geoffrey Billings, I’ve texted you the address. You feel like telling me who he is?” 

“All in good time. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have important business to attend to.” 

“Sherlock! You can’t just go-” Sherlock punched the “end call” button, cutting Greg off mid sentence. He’d explain everything once he had all the facts, and he wouldn’t have all the facts until he spoke with Billings. Joan was, as promised, in the living room.

“Come on, Joan!” he called out, grabbing her coat and tossing it to her. She caught the jacket neatly, but made no motion to put it on.

“Where are we going?” she asked, arms crossed. Sherlock did his very best not to point out how dense she had to be to not know already. It almost felt like having John with him.

“We,” Sherlock explained, pulling on his own coat and scarf, “are going to interrogate a murder suspect.”

Joan’s eyebrows rose in surprise, and she hurried to don her jacket. “The police have already brought him in?” she asked, following him down the stairs.

“What? Oh, no,” Sherlock said, “We’re going to his home to interrogate him.” He heard her footsteps halt on the pavement behind him, and spun to chastise her for slowing them down. She didn’t give him a chance.

“So, what, we’re just gonna go to this guy’s house - this _murderer’s_ house - and ask politely ‘oh, hello, sorry to bother you, but have you violently killed two people in the past few days?’”

“Of course not,” Sherlock said dismissively, raising his arm to hail a taxi, which swiftly pulled to a stop in front of them.

“Okay,” Joan sighed, sounding relieved. She slid into the back of the cab after him. “That’s good.”

“It’s an interrogation,” Sherlock continued, “We’re hardly going to be asking politely.”

Joan let out a pained sort of groan, and dropped her face into her hands. “Oh, this is going to end so badly,” she muttered. Sherlock rolled his eyes. They’d be fine, he was sure of it. It was only one man, a suspect who was not terribly physically fit, and who was unlikely to possess any weapons with which he could do real damage to either of them.

“Don’t be so dramatic,” he said, trying to sound reassuring (but probably failing), “John and I have done this many times, and we haven’t died yet. We’ll be fine.” Joan made a disbelieving snort, which Sherlock chose to ignore. That was that settled then. He gave the cabbie the address Lestrade had sent him, and sat back to wait. In no time they’d have their suspect in custody, and all the proof that they’d need to prove his guilt, easily done. What could possibly go wrong?

~x~X~x~

John was pleased at this Sherlock’s willingness to provide them with necessary protection, considering how things had a tendency to go so very wrong when out chasing after dangerous criminals. Still, he was rather disturbed by how frighteningly easy it was to obtain a handgun in New York. A quick phone call by Sherlock to one of his many “associates” and, not four hours later, a young man showed up on their doorstep carrying both weapon and ammo, which he exchanged for fifty dollars out of the detective’s wallet.

“Just to making sure I’ve understood this,” John said while quickly breaking down the Glock to check it over, “But this is an illegal, black market firearm?” It wasn’t the pistol that he was used to, but it was the make and model most commonly used by law enforcement, and he would have no trouble making a quick adjustment to the new weapon.

“Yes and no,” Sherlock answered, looking up from the tablet that he was planning their next move on. “It’s illegal for you to have, and is unregistered, but it wasn’t purchased through the usual channels of weapons dealers within the city. This particular weapon was traded in, and is believed to have been destroyed, in New York’s wonderful ‘Guns for Toys’ program that they’ve run around Christmastime for the past few years. A gentleman owed me a favour for getting him out of a spot of trouble several months ago, and was happy to procure for us an unregistered firearm, seeing how we’re going after the gang to which the men who murdered his daughter once belonged.”

John raised an eyebrow in question. “We’re not going after any gang.”

“No,” Sherlock said, “But he doesn’t need to know that, does he? Now, are you prepared? There are two possible locations where Lawson may be staying. I’d like to get them both checked over tonight.”

“Ready whenever you are,” John answered. This was the part of the cases that he was best at, after all.

*

Location number one was a disgusting hovel of a motel. The rooms were available for rent not only by night, but also by hour, week, or month. John did his very best to breath through his mouth so as to avoid the pervasive scent of vomit overlaid with cloyingly sweet air freshener, and followed Sherlock to the counter. He very nearly blew their cover by startling when he heard Sherlock speak, not in his own British accent, but with a twang to his voice that spoke of a life lived entirely in Brooklyn.

“I got a delivery for a,” he pretended to check the clipboard he’d brought with him, “Mr. Lawson? Might be Larson or Lanson. Hard to make out.”

The man behind the desk looked completely bored with life. He heaved a great sigh, and rolled his chair over to a sad looking old computer, complete with cathode-ray tube monitor. Even John, with his limited technical knowledge, knew that the motel was using equipment that must be ten years out of date, if not more. They even had actual, honest-to-goodness physical keys hung up behind the desk, as opposed to the cards used in most places these days. Several moments of half-hearted typing later, the clerk turned around. “We got no one here named Lawson, Larson, or Lanson. Or L-anything-son.”

“Are you sure?” Brooklin-Sherlock wheedled, “I’m in deep shit if I don’t get this delivered. He woulda got here yesterday or the day before.”

Desk-man was unmoved by delivery-Sherlock’s fabricated plight. “Nobody who checked in yesterday or the day before is still here tonight.”

John was getting a tad frustrated with the man’s unhelpful attitude, but bit his tongue. He had no skill at accents, and didn’t want to destroy Sherlock’s ruse. The detective huffed as though annoyed, and bid the desk attendant farewell with a “Thanks anyway,” before turning and heading back outside. 

“You’re giving up that easily?” John asked, taking in deep breaths of fresh(er) air to clear the motel’s scent from his nose. 

“Not giving up,” Sherlock explained, back to his own accent, “Lawson isn’t here.”

“What, you’re just... believing the sleazy desk clerk?” John asked incredulously.

“Of course not,” Sherlock responded, “I read the motel’s records over his shoulder while he was checking for Lawson. He was telling the truth. No one who checked in within the last two days had remained for longer than a few hours. Not to mention, all of the keys up behind the desk that had been moved recently had been returned to their places.”

The corner of John’s mouth curled up as his train of thought reminded him of his own Sherlock. “Dust is eloquent?” he asked. Sherlock looked a bit surprised, but then smiled.

“Yes, exactly so. Now, we must be off. We have one more possible lead to investigate. Come along, Watson!”

*

The second location that they were set to investigate was a rundown old industrial building, obviously unused for anything beyond squatting for a long while, if the graffiti scrawled across the brickwork was any indicator. It looked like a set from a slasher film, windows all broken and boarded up, and a “no trespassing” sign nailed haphazardly to the door, where it was clearly being ignored. John was glad to have the gun tucked into the back of his trousers.

“Charming place,” he breathed, causing Sherlock to chuckle softly.

“It certainly has character.”

The two men slipped in through the open door, and waited for their eyes to adjust enough to see inside. Sherlock cocked his head, and held a finger up to his lips, pointing upwards. John trained his own ears in that direction, and heard the unmistakable sounds of footsteps overhead. After listening for a moment, Sherlock turned back to John and held up his fingers, mouthing, “Four”. John nodded, and pulled out the Glock, just in case.

Sneaking up the stairs in the ill-kept building was an adventure in and of itself. Made of wrought-iron, some had rusted through in places, and twice John had to pull his foot back when a step started to creak ominously as he put his weight on it. Thankfully, they managed to ascend without alerting the other occupants to their presence. 

The upper level was lit mostly by light from the street lamps, streaming in through the dirty windows that ran around the perimeter of the room. The landing where John and Sherlock emerged was shadowed by a short brick wall that surrounded the stairs, acting in place of a balustrade. It gave them an excellent place to remain hidden while listening to the discussion taking place on the upper floor.

The loudest voice had a distinctly Eastern-European accent, and he sounded rather short-tempered. “If you are wasting my time, I will chop your body into little pieces and throw them in river.”

The man who answered sounded caught between the edge of incensed and terrified. “I’m not lying! Do you know how much this information is worth? I could get ten times what you’re paying if I went to the North Koreans!” John and Sherlock exchanged glances. That sounded like their man.

“But you are not going to North Koreans. You come to us. You are desperate.” The man’s tone was mocking.

“I’m not _desperate_ , I’m just sick of waiting! I’ve been stuck in this miserable dump for long enough! Do you have the money, or not?”

Sherlock looked over at John and was apparently trying to signal something, judging by the way that he kept raising his eyebrows and indicating with a movement of his head. Unfortunately, while John had gotten very adept at speechless communication with his own Sherlock, he had no idea what this incarnation of the man was trying to tell him.

“What?” John mouthed. Sherlock sighed and rolled his eyes.

“He’s changed who he’s selling the information to. In your own universe, he dealt with the North Koreans, but found himself double crossed. It makes sense that he’d try a different group this time around.”

“Are the Russians less likely to try to kill him than the Koreans?” John asked.

“Chechens,” Sherlock replied.

“What?” 

“Chechens,” he repeated, “They’re not from Russia, they’re from Chechnya, the Chechen Republic, you can tell by the accents. They’re possibly working on behalf of the rebel forces there. And no, they’re no less likely to attempt to kill Dr. Lawson once they have what they came for.”

“So, what you’re saying is,” John whispered, “Once Lawson turns over whatever research he has to these men, they’re probably going to shoot him.”

“Yes.”

“And thus eliminate the one man we know of who is capable of getting Joan and I back to our respective homes.”

“Yes.”

“So we’d better prevent that.”

“Yes. We had better.”

“Any ideas?” John prompted. The man certainly wasn’t very forthcoming.

“Three,” Sherlock answered distractedly, craning his neck to get a good look around as much of the building that could be seen from their hiding spot, “No, wait, four. How good a shot are you?”

John couldn’t hold back a self-assured little smirk. “Pretty damned good.”

“Good enough to hit that?” He pointed skyward, and John followed his finger, squinting into the darkness, until he saw what Sherlock was pointing at.

It was a rope, looped around a beam up above, tied in a complicated knot, and it held up, on its other end, what was either a canvas curtain or a large projector screen. John knew instantly what Sherlock was getting at. If the rope were severed above the knot, it would send the canvas crashing down onto whoever was below, not enough to kill, but definitely an effective method of stunning both the Chechens and Dr. Lawson, not to mention trapping them in a makeshift net. It was almost an impossible shot.

John heaved a silent sigh, contemplating how accurate he’d have to be to hit the rope on his first try. “Don’t suppose you’ve got a sniper rifle with a telescopic sight hidden on you somewhere?” he asked sarcastically.

“Left it in my other coat,” Sherlock answered with a smile. 

“Alright, give me a minute. How long do we have, do you figure?”

Sherlock cocked his head and listened for a moment before responding. “At least five minutes. Can you see the target alright? I could shine my torch up there. Likely they wouldn’t notice the light so high above themselves.” 

John nodded. “Do it.” He steadied the pistol, training his eye down the sights and focusing on the rope where it was lit up by the beam from Sherlock’s torch. The next few seconds were silent as he focused his breathing and cut off all knowledge of the outside world. The voices of the four men across the room fell away, and all that remained was the rhythmic in-out of his lungs and thumping of his heart. 

Between one breath and the next, John squeezed down on the trigger. The retort of the shot reverberated around the spacious room, and a shout went up from the conspirators, but John didn’t pay any attention to that. He’d only just grazed the rope, not nearly enough to bring the canvas down. Pushing down his frustration, he refocused, doing his best to ignore the shouting coming from the group of armed men across the floor. Once again, he concentrated. Aim. Breath in. Breath out. Pull the trigger, and-

There was a loud crash as the huge piece of canvas went hurtling down, followed by much muffled shouting and cursing in what John took to be Chechen as the gangsters struggled with Sherlock’s improvised trap. Both detective and doctor sprang to action, bounding from the stairwell and making for the incapacitated group. Sherlock grabbed the end of the rope that wasn’t attached to the canvas and looped it deftly around the three men under the canvas, ensuring that they wouldn’t be getting free anytime soon. John took off after Lawson, who had been standing just far enough from the other men that he hadn’t been trapped. 

The man was surprisingly quick for a scientist who, presumably, spent the majority of his time in a lab. John raced after him, sparing a quick glance behind himself to see that Sherlock had joined in the chase. 

Lawson reached another staircase down to the lower floor, and paused for a moment at the top, giving John an opportunity to negotiate.

“Doctor Lawson! Stop! We can help you, please!” He wasn’t entirely sure what they could help him with, but anything that got the scientist to stop running would be good in his book.

“You have no idea what you’re dealing with!” Lawson hissed at John, spinning around to face him, “Stay back or I’ll make you regret it!” He looked tired and desperate. John had seen that look before, in Afghanistan. It was common amongst people who truly believed that they had nothing left to lose, a dangerous frame of mind to be in. Lawson made to reach for something in his jacket, and John trained the Glock on him.

“Not another move, Lawson!” he shouted. Lawson froze. Sherlock stood stock still behind John, both men focused on the scientist at the top of the stairs.

“We have no interest in hurting you,” Sherlock said, “Unlike your Chechen friends back there. Did you know they planned to shoot you and dump your body once you’d given up whatever research you were selling?” Lawson’s eyes widened, and he darted a glance back towards the wriggling canvas bundle, before returning his attention to the more immediate threat. His hand moved inside his jacket again.

“Keep your hands where I can see them!” John shouted. He really had no interest in getting shot again, thank you very much. 

Lawson was starting to look panicked, and in an effort to prevent any rash action, John edged forward ever so slightly. “Let’s just talk about this,” he said calmly, but it seemed to have the opposite of his intended effect.

“Leave me alone!” Lawson screamed, whirling around and thundering down the stairs. Sherlock and John quickly followed, but neither was close enough to reach the scientist when it happened.

The back stairs were just as rusted-out and rickety as the ones that Sherlock and John had climbed up on, and in the darkness and his rush to escape his pursuers, Lawson wasn’t paying attention to his footing or the state of the steps. One moment, he was running down the staircase, John almost within an arm’s length, and the next, there was a horrible creaking noise, followed by a snap.

The tread, unprepared for the sudden force of a full-grown man running downwards, gave in to age and neglect, crumbling and breaking away under Lawson’s foot. As his right foot went plunging through the hole, his arms flailed wildly for purchase, but there was no railing to grab onto, and John could only watch as the physicist fell victim to gravity. The only thing preventing him from going crashing down as well was Sherlock’s hand, which had lashed out at the last moment and grabbed John’s coat collar.

Lawson tumbled down the stairs, and landed in a heap at the bottom with a sickening crunch. John and Sherlock raced to follow, while also being cautious with their own footing. At the foot of the staircase, John crouched down to examine Lawson, to determine the extent of his injuries. When he saw the angle at which the man’s neck had landed, and the unnatural stillness with which he lay, cold fear swept through him.

“What is it?” Sherlock asked, reaching the landing several moments after John, “Is he alright?”

John looked up from the one man who had any idea how to switch him and Joan back to the right universes, to the Sherlock who was so very different from his own dear friend, and his voice cracked as he spoke. “He’s dead.”


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The conclusion of Joan and Sherlock's case.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, it's been WAY too long since my last posting. This chapter has been rewritten to death, and I'm still not entirely happy with it, but you've all waited long enough! I hope you can forgive me.
> 
> -E

The row house at which Joan and Sherlock exited the cab gave the impression of someone trying to make the most with what they had. It was a small, dingy-coloured brick building without much yard to speak of, and it was in a part of town that, while not dangerous, couldn’t really be considered “nice” either. Someone had painted the front door a friendly shade of blue, and the single front-facing window on the ground floor had a flower box attached. It was no gorgeous piece of architecture with a white picket fence, but Joan decided that it looked decidedly cozy and welcoming. It _definitely_ didn’t look like the home of a murderer, not that appearances tended to mean much in that regard.

“This is the house?” she asked, turning to Sherlock, who was staring intently at the building, taking it all in and no doubt deducing everything possible about its occupants.

“No, I thought we should drive to a random location and then walk to the address that we’re actually going to. Honestly.”

Joan’s only response to the sarcasm was an unimpressed raising of her eyebrows.

“Yes, this is it,” Sherlock confirmed scornfully, “Shall we?” She followed his lead and approached the front door. Apparently Sherlock’s brilliant strategy for the interrogation really was just to walk up and knock.

There was a prolonged period of silence while the pair stood waiting on the front step, before the door was finally answered by a brunette woman of around thirty years of age. She looked tired, with bags under her eyes and a pallor to her skin, save two bright spots of flushed pink on her cheeks. 

“Mrs. Billings?” Sherlock asked.

“Er, yes,” the woman answered timidly, “Can I help you? If you’re here to speak with Geoff, he’s not in at the moment.” 

Joan let out a small sigh of disappointment at discovering that their suspected murderer wasn’t home, but Sherlock didn’t seem deterred in the least.

“Actually, we were hoping to speak with you if that’s alright?” his usual disdainful arrogance had been replaced with a charming smile. Having seen her own Sherlock do the same quick-switch, it didn’t phase Joan in the least. That wasn’t to say that it didn’t still strike as rather bizarre. 

Mrs. Billings looked warily from Sherlock, to Joan, and then back again. “What about?” She asked. This woman appeared the very definition of “downtrodden”. Joan was sadly reminded of a dog who had been kicked one too many times and was now nervous whenever it saw someone wearing boots. 

“It’s about your husband, actually,” Joan explained gently, “We just want to ask you a couple of questions. He’ll never need to know that we were here.” The other woman peered out into the street for a moment as though checking to see if anyone was watching, and then stepped back to grant them entry. Sherlock swept past, but Joan paused to give the woman a little smile. 

“Please, have a seat,” Mrs. Billings said once they reached the main living space of the home, indicating a slightly worn-out, but still comfortable-looking sofa. She tugged nervously at the sleeves of her top, pulling them lower in an attempt to cover several bruises. Joan sat, but Sherlock remained standing, his eyes sweeping around the room.

“Is your husband still at work, Mrs. Billings?” the consulting detective asked. 

“No,” she answered, “And please, just ‘Abigail’ is fine. Mrs. Billings is my mother-in-law.” A ghost of a smile hovered on her face for a heartbeat.

“Abigail, then,” Sherlock conceded with a small nod. “Where is he, do you know?”

Abigail nodded. “Down the pub, with some of his mates. He goes there every one night out of three.”

“So he’s often not at home in the evenings?”

“Well, no, not always, I mean, he also does a lot of things on the computer...” The woman looked more skittish than a frightened deer, and her hands had a faint tremor. “May I ask what this is about?”

Joan shot a quick glance over to Sherlock for some clue as to what their cover story was, but it seemed the consulting detective had grown tired of coddling the witness.

“Your husband’s currently a suspect for not one, but _two_ murders. The only suspect, in fact. So, if you could just confirm whether or not he was here on-”

“Sherlock!” Joan cut him off, appalled by the lack of tact. Poor Abigail had gone even paler, and her lower lip was quivering. She was clearly seconds away from bursting into tears. Sherlock’s eyes narrowed at this response.

“Oh, I see,” he said, staring intently at Mrs. Billings. Whatever it was that he saw was not, however, apparent to Joan.

“It’s going to be okay,” she gentled, trying to reassure Abigail. This only made the problem worse, as the woman covered her face with her hands and began crying silently.

“Of course it’s not going to be ‘okay’” Sherlock sneered. Joan stamped down on the urge to strangle the man before he continued, addressing Mrs. Billings. “You knew, or at least you suspected,” he said, “Most women, upon hearing their husbands accused of murder, would react with shock or outrage, disbelief, but you’re simply... resigned.”

Joan turned to look at Abigail, surprised. This woman had known that her husband was a violent criminal and hadn’t said anything or gone to the authorities? Did he have her so under his thumb? 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” her words were muffled by both her hands and the tears. Whatever she had or hadn’t done, the woman clearly felt guilty. 

Sherlock was eyeing Mrs. Billings with a curiosity that Joan wasn’t overly thrilled with.

“Abigail,” Joan said softly, placing what she hoped was a comforting hand on the woman’s shoulder, “What are you sorry about?” She hoped that this would distract Sherlock from whatever his brilliant but tactless mind was pondering.

Abigail took several deep, shaky breaths, and spoke in a voice barely more than a whisper. “I knew he’d- he’d done something terrible. I knew...” She swallowed. “He was talking about ‘doing a favour’ for a friend, and then a few nights ago he comes home staggering drunk, raving about someone getting what was coming to them, and then- and then-” Whatever she was going to say was swept away in a fresh bout of hiccoughing sobs.

“And then what, Abigail?” Sherlock asked with a gentleness that made Joan’s head swivel to meet his eyes. He didn’t look like a triumphant detective, ready to crow his brilliance. He looked almost... sympathetic. “What happened after that?”

“H-he got so angry with me, and I was so frightened. I didn’t mean to, I swear! It was an accident! He just- I- I-” Mrs. Billings didn’t seem capable of speaking anymore, and suddenly Joan got the picture all to clearly.

“Oh no,” she breathed, her shoulders sagging, and Sherlock caught her eye, then nodded, acknowledging that her conclusion matched his own.

“We already know what happened. How about you just tell us?” Sherlock asked quietly. Abigail’s sobs increased in both volume and intensity as she choked out her answer.

“I killed him!” she wailed, “I killed him, oh God, oh God, what did I do? I just- I just- He had hurt so many people! Hitting me was one thing, but murder? I saw the news the day after he came home! I knew what he’d done! That poor woman, she’d never done anything to him, and he just got worse and worse, and more and more angry afterwards, and- and- I was holding the shovel, and I _knew_ he was going to hit me again, I _knew_ , and-” 

Joan felt ill. This wasn’t the thrilling conclusion to a brilliant case that she and both Sherlocks loved. This was a broken, battered woman who had finally been pushed too far, and had defended herself against her abuser. The idea of turning this woman in to New Scotland Yard for murder, or even manslaughter, made Joan’s stomach turn. Judging by the grim look on Sherlock’s face, he didn’t feel any differently.

“I’m a murderer,” Abigail whispered, looking up at Sherlock and then Joan with wide open eyes, “I’m a murderer.” Sherlock rolled his eyes and shook his head.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he chided, “You are no more a murderer than a hunter who shoots a wolf that attacks him. What you did was in self defense. He was going to kill you next.” Abigail’s head shot up.

“What?” she breathed. Sherlock turned to Joan for an audience to his exposition.

“The original plan, the deal that he made with Fisher, it was a hit for a hit: He kills Fisher’s aunt, leaving the other man with a fool-proof alibi and a nice inheritance, and then Fisher does the same to Billings’s wife, who, presumably, has a life insurance policy of some sort.” He glanced quickly at Abigail, who looked too stunned to do more than nod in confirmation. “But Alexander backed out of his side of the deal. When Billings, a man with a violent temper who’d already discovered how easy it was to asphyxiate someone, went to confront Fisher, the other man refused to follow through, and Billings killed him. With no one left to be his hit man, Billings was obviously going to murder his wife himself!” Joan watched the manic light in Sherlock’s eyes for a moment, and then something just... clicked.

“You’ll plead self-defense,” Sherlock was saying to Abigail matter-of-factly, “And with the history of abuse - and doubtlessly there are records of your visits to hospital and doctors with the NHS-”

“Sherlock,” Joan said quietly.

“No jury would convict you of first degree murder. It would be manslaughter, at the most. I’d be surprised if it even took-”

“Sherlock.” She spoke more firmly this time, and garnered a response.

“What?” he snapped.

“Can I speak with you a moment? Privately?” Joan asked. She looked over at Abigail, who looked increasingly confused and distressed by what was happening. Sherlock furrowed his brow, but followed when Joan stepped into the hallway to whisper to him. “Whatever she ends up pleading, it’s not going to matter.”

Sherlock glared her down. “Why won’t it matter? Of course it matters! This woman is a victim, not some hardened criminal. Any solicitor with even half a brain would be capable of mounting a solid defence!”

Joan chose to ignore the detective’s vehemence, focusing on the facts that her brain had been piecing together since she’d seen that bright pink flush in Abigail’s cheeks when they had first arrived. “Think about it, Sherlock. The flush, the hand tremors. Did you see the bruises on her arms?”

Sherlock scoffed. “Of course I did.”

“Well, think about the shapes and sizes, how long do bruises like that take to get to that colour?” Joan continued. “Those have been collected over a long time, some possibly within the last day. They’re not all caused by her husband. She’s been walking into things, losing her balance, tripping, falling...” 

“Oh,” Sherlock exclaimed softly, his brow furrowing as understanding began to dawn on his features..

Joan nodded sadly. “It fits, doesn’t it? She doesn’t look well, her husband wanted her dead. Where did he work?”

“Hazardous waste disposal,” Sherlock stated, “It would have been so easy for him to get his hands on something.”

“The tremors, the flushed cheeks, the loss of coordination and balance? I bet if we ask her, she’s been having headaches and back pain for some time now, as well.”

“Mercurialism,” Sherlock stated. He looked nothing like the way that Joan felt - staggered by the sheer atrocity of what Geoffrey Billings had done. A mask of calm detachment had slipped down over his features at the same moment the realisation must have solidified in his mind.

“Very advanced, if it’s moved on to neurological symptoms,” Joan confirmed, “Way past what could be fixed with chelation therapy.”

“It makes sense, in a way,” Sherlock said contemplatively, “He’s wanted her dead for far longer than a few weeks, the plan with Fisher was just a convenient way to remove all suspicion from Billings himself, to avoid the investigation into his motives. A woman dead from mercury poisoning and a husband set to make a decent sum raises all sorts of red flags. A woman killed in her own bed while said husband is out somewhere across town...”

“Abigail was always going to die, no matter what Alexander Fisher did or didn’t do.” Joan squeezed her eyes shut. God, how were they going to tell the poor woman? It had been bad enough, telling a patient’s family that their loved one hadn’t made it on the operating table, but to tell a person that they were going to die, because of the actions of a man who they should have been able to trust above anyone else? It was unfathomable.

“I suppose we’ll have to inform Mrs. Billings,” Sherlock mused, “It’s probably best she know before she’s arrested, so that they can push for the trial to be expedited. Or perhaps it would be best to tell Lestrade when he comes, so that it can be confirmed with a blood test and hair sample first.”

They ended up explaining it to both Abigail and Lestrade at the same time. The Detective Inspector showed up not long after Sherlock called him, eager to hear the full story of what on earth the whole convoluted mess with Fisher had amounted to. Joan did her best to be gentle with Abigail, but the woman seemed to have sunk into almost a catatonic state. There really was only so much that one person could handle, apparently.

“God, seems cruel to have to bring her in,” Lestrade said in hushed tones while the unpleasant DI from the initial crime scene (who, it turned out, was very good at her job, just not fond of Sherlock) tried to get Mrs. Billings to answer some questions. “The man was a monster. As far as I’m concerned, she hasn’t done anything wrong.”

“Well,” Sherlock injected, “She did stab a man in the neck with a garden shovel, and then bury his body under the petunias, not exactly the best example of law-abiding citizenry.” Joan didn’t even have it in herself to glare at the insensitive jerk. She wasn’t sure what he was playing at, but there was no way that he was that cold.

“A man who killed two people, and was poisoning her to death,” Lestrade countered.

“Lestrade?” It was Sally who joined them, her face bearing an expression that Joan knew must show on her own features - resignation and sorrow.”I don’t think we’re going to get anything out of her this evening. I’ve requested that a counsellor be present at the station when we bring her in.”

Lestrade nodded. “Good call. Alright, well,” he heaved a great sigh, “God, some days you almost wish you _hadn’t_ caught them.” He turned back to Joan and Sherlock. “Thanks for the help with this. Any way I can get you to actually come in to the station and give a full report some time tomorrow, Sherlock?” The question was asked with the wryness of a man who knew what the answer was before asking.

“No. There is no way that-” Sherlock began. Joan cut him off.

“I’ll get him there.”

Sherlock glared at her. “I highly doubt that.” Joan raised an eyebrow threateningly, and the detective huffed before descending into a full-blown pout.

Lestrade offered her an amused smirk. “I think I can see the family resemblance between you and John. Must be an inherent Watson trait, being able to handle stroppy consulting detectives.”

Joan couldn’t help a wistful smile of her own. “Lestrade, you have no idea.” She turned to Sherlock, who had apparently decided to attempt to cause her death via angry glowering. “Come on, sulky, let’s get you home. I think it’s high time you actually had more that twelve consecutive minutes of sleep.” She bid farewell to Lestrade with another promise to drag Sherlock in the next day, even if it meant cocooning him in duct tape, and they caught a cab.

The detective was unusually quiet on the ride home. She may not have had much time with this Sherlock, but her own was usually completely wired after successfully solving a case. This man seemed considerably more melancholy than anything else. 

The silence lasted all the way to the sitting room of 221B, where Joan tried to feel out exactly what was going on inside that mysterious head, while Sherlock lay on the sofa, glaring at the ceiling.

“Sherlock? Are you okay?”

“Don’t ask stupid questions,” he responded.

“Do you want to talk about what happened? That wasn’t exactly a triumphant end to your case.”

“I solved it. What more do you want?” He swung himself to a seated position and then stood. “Leave me alone, I’m _fine,”_ he insisted. Joan knew how to pick her battles, and moved towards the stairs.

“Alright, well, I’m gonna turn in. We can get in touch with John and my Sherlock in the morning, see if they’ve had any luck finding Lawson.”

“Fine.”

“Good night Sherlock,” she added, before heading up. 

Her feet had barely hit the fourth step before the violin music started. It was a plaintive piece, full of longing and sorrow. It made Joan wish she could see her own Holmes and give him a hug.

It was to the mournful sounds of violin and maudlin thoughts of Abigail Billings that Joan finally fell asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note: This hasn't been abandoned! I'm still writing more and will post as soon as I can. It may be a few weeks yet, but it's on its way! (Jan 28, 2014)


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock deal with the aftermath of their late-night stakeout.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh writer's block, how I hate you. 
> 
> It's been so long since I last posted! I'm sorry! I know exactly how the rest of this story goes, it's just a matter of getting it all out. A shorter chapter than usual, but more to come soon!

It turns out that shots being fired inside an abandoned building in the middle of a bad part of town had a very good chance of getting police involved in the situation. John, unused to the NYPD’s procedures, followed Sherlock’s lead. Fortunately, the detective had seen fit to toss the unregistered firearm, for which John obviously bore no permit, up and over onto the roof of a little office constructed within the warehouse itself. It would be easy to retrieve later, and, hopefully, ensured that John would not be introduced to the glory of the American penal system.

When the officers answering the 911 dispatch had found Sherlock Holmes at their potential crime scene, they had immediately made a call, and a young Detective named Bell had shown up not long afterwards. He was obviously not pleased at being dragged out to a crime scene for “Holmes Handling”, something that he stated outright upon his arrival. John was reminded of Lestrade, and liked him instantly.

“So, lemme get this straight,” Bell was saying to Sherlock, “When you found out there was a clandestine meeting between three potential terrorists taking place, instead of calling the _police,_ like a _sane_ person would, you decided to eavesdrop on the conversation, ultimately leading to one of the criminals firing their weapon, and another falling down the stairs and breaking his neck?”

“Yes,” Sherlock responded matter-of-factly, “As well as apprehending the two remaining criminals through the use of clever ingenuity and a projector screen.”

It spoke to the consulting detective's relationship with the NYPD that nobody questioned the truth of Holmes's story. Bell did, however, let out a long-suffering sigh before he turned to John. “And where do _you_ fit in with all this?”

Sherlock answered before John could speak. “This is John, a friend of mine from London. He’s visiting for a few days, and was interested in my detective work, so I brought him along.”

Bell looked suspicious. “You gonna start making a habit of dragging unsuspecting civilians to dangerous crime scenes?”

“Well, to be fair, I wasn’t entirely unsuspecting,” John explained.

“John has worked with me before,” Sherlock added, “In London.” Technically, it was true. Detective Bell didn’t need to know that John’s prior experience had actually happened in a parallel dimension, with an alternate version of Sherlock. 

Bell shrugged. “Whatever, it’s your funeral." He turned his attention back to Sherlock. "Was there anything in particular you were hoping to find out, sneaking around dangerous criminals in the middle of the night?"

"Yes, actually," Sherlock replied with a smile, "I've been looking into a physicist who stole some data from a facility in New Jersey. Would it be alright if I had a look at the contents of the dead man's pockets?"

Bell scrutinised the two men for a moment, and then shrugged. "Yeah, okay. Just try to keep all of the evidence _at_ the crime scene, hmm?" John figured that there was probably a story there, but knew better than to ask at that moment. He just followed as Sherlock moved to where Lawson's body was being examined by crime scene investigators.

"Anything medical you can tell me, Doctor Watson?" The detective asked, sifting through the contents of Lawson's pockets, already laid out and photographed by the crime scene techs.

"Nothing significant," John answered, "He looks sleep deprived and stressed, but that's not a surprise. He doesn't look any worse than some second year med students mid-exams."

"Aside from the broken neck," Sherlock added helpfully.

"Yes. Thank you," John deadpanned, "Aside from that."

"Hmm," Sherlock muttered, unfolding a stack of papers from a bag labeled "Back Left Pants Pocket". His eyes widened as he read.

"What is it?" John asked in a whisper.

"His formulas," Sherlock breathed, "He brought them with him." John could feel his heart rate kick up.

"Meaning?" He prodded hopefully. Sherlock met his eyes with a slightly manic smile growing on his face.

"Meaning, we just might not need Dr. Lawson himself to get yourself and Watson home!"

John felt an answering smile on his own face. "Seriously? That's fantastic! Do we... do we just... take it?" He glanced surreptitiously back at Detective Bell. He really didn't fancy being arrested for removing evidence or obstruction of justice in a dimension where he didn't even technically exist. 

"Well, it probably wouldn't be wise to just leave this information lying about, considering the mess that it has the potential to cause...” Sherlock trailed off. He shifted his eyes back to the papers. There were at least two dozen sheets, all covered in messy scrawl, most of which made absolutely no sense whatsoever to John. Undergraduate calculus and physics from over a decade ago would clearly be of little help here.

"What are you going to do, then?" John asked. 

"Simple." Sherlock responded, and with out any attempt at subterfuge, he simply folded the papers back up, and tucked them into his own pocket. 

"Sherlock!" John hissed, "You can't just take that! It's evidence!"

"Clearly I can, as I just did," Sherlock answered flippantly. "Try not to appear so scandalised, you'll give us away." 

"Someone is going to notice that they're missing."

"Yes, eventually," Sherlock agreed, "by which time we will hopefully have yourself and Watson back in the correct universes, and I will have had the opportunity to create a set of forgeries with enough errors to prevent anyone else from recreating the doctor's experiment."

John had to admit that he had a point. "Won't it cause you trouble when they find out you stole evidence?"

"Wouldn't be the first time," Sherlock shrugged, "Doesn't matter, Gregson will frown and scold me, and tell me not to do it again, and it'll all be forgiven until the next time I liberate something from a crime scene." 

John shook his head, unable to help the fond smile on his lips. "God help us all if you and my Sherlock ever end up in the same dimension. I shudder to think what havoc you both would wreak." This earned his a flash of grin, gone so quickly it might never have been there in the first place, before the other man turned and strode back to where Bell was standing.

"Thank you, Detective," Sherlock said, "I shall inform you if I discover anything else pertinent to your investigation." He spun and made to leave before pivoting back around quickly. "Oh, also, you should have a look at the forearm tattoo of the taller blond man who was trapped in the projector screen. I believe it matches that of a suspect description from a drive by shooting two weeks ago. Farewell!" With that, he was off, leaving John, as always it seemed, to follow.

"Nice to meet you," John offered to Detective Bell, who nodded seriously in return.

"Careful around Holmes," Bell suggested, "He's not a very... stabilising element." John smiled, and called out over his shoulder as he made his way after Sherlock.

"I know! That's why I like him!" He didn't need to look to know that Bell was shaking his head in bemusement. John couldn't help it, though. They may have lost Doctor Lawson himself, but they had his formulas and calculations, and were one step closer to getting both John and Joan home. If that didn't put him in a good mood, nothing would, and it was with a spring in his step that he followed this world's only consulting detective out into the night.

-x-X-x-

Joan was awoken from a strange dream about a grumpy, scarf-wearing cat by a thumping noise and a great deal of shouting. Her first though was that Sherlock had decided to start testing her reflexes again, but then she remembered - this wasn't her universe, and it wasn't her Sherlock pounding his fist against her door at - she glanced at the clock and groaned - 4:36 AM. Sighing, she grabbed the robe that she had appropriated from John's closet, wrapped it around herself, and opened the bedroom door.

Sherlock, standing on the other side of the threshold, looked positively manic. His eyes were wild, his hair looked as though he'd been tugging on it, and his expression was one of breathless excitement. Joan couldn't help the small flutter of hope that dawned in her chest. "What is it?" she asked, any annoyance at the interruption in her sleep forgotten.

"It's John," Sherlock held up his cell phone, "He and Sherlock have found Doctor Lawson's research - his formulas and calculations!" He pushed past Joan into the room, and sat on the edge of John's bed, holding out his mobile. "Tell her what you've found, Sherlock."

Joan's heart clenched at the sound of the voice coming through the phone's speaker. "It's fascinating," Joan's Sherlock said, "Almost elegant, in a way."

"You've got the information Lawson used to jump between universes?" Joan asked excitedly, "Can you switch John and I back?"

"Well..." Sherlock began, "Not exactly." Joan's shoulder's slumped. "Not yet, at least. But soon! We just need help from someone who knows a bit more about this sort of technology than myself. At least you're keeping busy, Watson!"

"How'd your case go?" John's voice interjected. Joan glanced briefly over at the Sherlock perched on the mattress next to her.

"It's... not important right now," Joan prevaricated. "Sherlock, is there anyone you know in New York with the scientific expertise to put Lawson's data to use?" She pretended not to notice the way Sherlock had tensed at the mention of the Fisher case.

"Hmm, yes, I think so," said Sherlock through the speaker, "He's a little odd, but one of the most intelligent scientists I've ever met. I should be able to convince him to help."

"Odd?" John said, " _You_ think someone's _odd?_ I'm not sure how I should feel about that."

"How you 'feel' about it is of no consequence, John," the Sherlock next to Joan said ardently, "This is the only way that you and Joan can be put back where you belong." 

"I know, Sherlock," John said gently, "Don't worry, I can handle 'odd'. I'll be home for tea, just you wait."

Sherlock scoffed, but Joan could see a smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

"We'll let you get back to sleep, Watson," Joan's Sherlock said, making Joan crack a smile of her own. "As soon as we have anything new, you two will be the first to know."

"Thanks Sherlock," Joan said, "Have a good night."

"Goodnight, Watson."

"Goodnight Sherlock," John added. Joan looked at Sherlock expectantly, and motioned for him to say something.

"Goodnight, John," Sherlock said stiffly, and then he ended the call. Joan offered him a small smile of encouragement.

"He knows you care, Sherlock." He harrumphed, but Joan knew he was pleased. "Anyway, I'm going to go back to sleep. I want to be well rested if I'm going to be jumping between universes tomorrow." 

Sherlock stood, and headed for the door as Joan shed her robe and crawled back under the sheets. Just before he pulled the door closed behind him, Joan could swear she heard Sherlock whisper, "Goodnight, Joan."


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which someone is crazier than Sherlock, and Joan extends an olive branch.

John had enough experience from his practical rounds on the psych ward during residency to recognise almost immediately that Sherlock's "expert" wasn't exactly mentally stable. Things started out normally enough, with Sherlock dragging John out to a little building of flats - or rather, _apartments_ \- where his acquaintance lived. The low rise wasn't exactly in the nicest part of Brooklyn, but there wasn't actually any indication that something was off until they reached the door to the apartment itself. 

"I should probably warn you," Sherlock began before knocking, "Alan isn't overly fond of strangers. Or visitors in general. Or... well, he's not terribly fond of much. I'll do the talking. You just try to look as nonthreatening as possible." He took in John's outfit - cream wool jumper, jeans, loafers. "Yes, like that, exactly." John scowled at Sherlock's back as he turned and knocked.

There were almost five minutes of silence before a male voice called from the other side of the door, "Go away!" John bit his lip to hold back a chuckle. He certainly seemed friendly.

"Alan! It's Sherlock! I have something that will definitely interest you!"

Another moment of silence before, "I said go away!"

"Come on Alan! Just give me five minutes!"

"Stop saying my name," the voice on the other side of the door hissed, "You want to let everyone who's listening know that I live here?"

"Let me in and I won't have to, Alan!" Sherlock called back. After another pause, there was a brief scuffle in the apartment, followed by the sound of multiple locks being turned. The door opened a crack, the security chain still engaged, and an eye appeared through the gap.

"Who's with you?" Alan demanded.

"This is my friend, John. You can trust him," Sherlock said gently. John was scrutinised for a moment, and then the door shut again while Alan undid the chain. The door opened fully, and Sherlock strode through, John following closely.

Inside, John got his first good look at Sherlock's "friend". He was tall, and of fairly average build, with a sandy colour of blond hair very similar to John's own. He was dressed in plaid pyjama bottoms, thong sandals, and a shirt that declared "I'm here because you broke something". He wasn't what one might typically come up with when picturing an agoraphobic, technology-obsessed shut-in; was well-kempt, with a clean-shaven face and recently washed hair. He did, however, have the usual markers of fatigue or insomnia: dark circles under his eyes, which were bloodshot, and a vaguely unhealthy appearance. He was also deathly pale, and John would be surprised if he'd been outside for any great length of time in the last few months. He looked John over nervously before shifting his attention to Sherlock.

"What do you want, Sherlock? Last time you brought me something I might find 'interesting' I ended up getting threatening letters from the FBI’s Cyber Crime division for almost a month before you got shit cleared up."

John shot a sideways glance at Sherlock, who waved his hand and mouthed "later!"

"That was a misunderstanding," Sherlock explained, "Unfortunate, yes, but this is nothing like that. Here, just have a look." He held out the papers with Lawson’s data on them. Alan snatched them out of Sherlock's hand and quickly began scanning them over. The more he read, the higher and higher his eyebrows rose towards his hairline.

"Sherlock..." Alan breathed, sounding awed, "Is this shit for real?" He looked at Sherlock as though he'd just handed over a wooden cup and declared it to be the holy grail.

Sherlock, for his part, smiled enigmatically, and indicated John with a sweep of his hand. "Alan, may I introduce John Watson, traveller from another dimension."

John found himself being scrutinised by sharp blue eyes, and was hit with a sudden bout of homesickness. God, he hoped this man could actually put Lawson's data into practice. If he was actually starting to miss being stared at by his mad flatmate, things were getting bad. 

Alan didn't appear to be terribly impressed with John. "Awfully far-fetched, Holmes."

"Doesn't matter whether or not you believe us," Sherlock answered, "You have the math, the physics, you can look through it, decide for yourself if it's possible." Alan looked torn between suspicion and the glee of a child who's just been told they can pick out anything they like at a toy store.

"Fair enough... And what, exactly, were you hoping I could do for you _with_ this data?"

Sherlock smiled. "Put it to use, of course!"

The other man clearly hadn't expected that, judging by his reaction. "Are you crazy? Do you have any idea the kind of equipment, the kind of funding I'd need to even begin to _test_ this kind of theory? I'm a physics and technology wizard, Sherlock, not a miracle-worker! I only make money doing freelance IT. It pays for the occasional RAM upgrade; this is CERN-level shit!"

"Let me worry about that part," Sherlock said enigmatically, "You just have a look through those papers. Find out how it works."

"How it works _in theory,_ " Alan added.

Sherlock smiled. "In theory."

“You’re nuts, Holmes. Absolutely raving.” It would have sounded like an insult, were it not for the gleam in the man’s eyes. He turned to John. “You seriously from another dimension?”

John scratched the back of his head, feeling awkward. “Ah, yeah. I am,” he answered.

“What’s it like?” It seemed as though Alan couldn’t decide between fascination and skepticism, and had thus gotten stuck somewhere in between.

“Pretty much like this one, with a different Sherlock though.”

Alan looked put-out. “Oh. That’s... boring. Really? Exactly the same?”

John nodded. “Yup, except for the zombies, of course,” he added nonchalantly, holding in his laughter when Alan’s eyes widened.

“You’re shitting me!”

John couldn’t keep back a grin. “Yeah, I am. It’s really not all that different, sorry to disappoint.”

The other man’s shoulders sagged, and he aimed a glare at John before turning his attention back to Sherlock. “You paying me for any of this?”

“The information on those pages isn’t payment enough?” Sherlock asked. Alan’s response was a raised eyebrow. “Yes, yes, alright.”

“I usually charge $145 an hour for consulting,” Alan said sardonically. John did his best not to let his eyes bug out of his skull. $145 an hour? Clearly he was in the wrong line of work. Most of the time the fee charged by Sherlock for his “consulting” was... nothing. Yes, they were occasionally paid, and there had been that one very strange incident where a man had offered them a purebred puppy in exchange for finding his prize-winning Cavalier King Charles Spaniel , but a lot of the time the only compensation they received was in the form of heartfelt thanks and the odd news article. John still wanted to kick himself for turning down the puppy, having since learned that they could sell for upwards of £5000.

“I’ll give you $150 and let you keep the papers,” Sherlock deadpanned.

“$250, the papers, and a favour of my choosing at any point in the future,” Alan countered. John was starting to feel as though he was watching a tennis match.

“$200, the papers, and a dozen of those cookies you love from that bakery in the east Village.”

“Make it two dozen and we have a deal.”

“Done.” Both men held out their hands and shook on it, and then Sherlock turned back to the door, leaving John to follow. He paused for a moment, and addressed Alan. 

"I know it seems a little far fetched, the whole 'other dimension' thing, but... if there's anything you can do... Yeah, anyway, thanks," he finished awkwardly. The only response from Alan was a brief nod, and John left to follow Sherlock. 

The longer he was stuck in this universe, the more useless he felt. This Sherlock didn't need him. He didn't know the ins and outs of New York, was unfamiliar with the police force in this city, and, most importantly, he didn't know this Sherlock. He couldn't predict what was needed, what this detective was thinking, or how John himself could help. Back home, with his own Sherlock, they made a formidable team, a force to be reckoned with. In this dimension, all he seemed to be capable of was following, and hoping that he wouldn't be left behind. For all that his well-aimed shot the night before had helped, John had no doubt that this Sherlock would have been perfectly fine without him. As he followed the detective away from Alan's apartment, he could do little more than hope for a way back to his own life, and his own best friend.

-x-X-x-

Sherlock had been lying on the sofa for approximately five hours. He had flopped down onto the slightly-worn leather just after the phone call from John, and had been in the same position ever since. He had no case, no experiments worth his time, and no John. He was expecting his brain to begin dissolving and running out his nose any moment now.

“Have you moved at all since I got up?” Joan asked as she walked by on her way from the shower.

“Are you asking in terms of position in space, or movement of individual body parts?” Sherlock said in answer, “Because if it’s the former, no, but if it’s the latter, yes. I have continued breathing and blinking. And, just now, moving both my jaw and tongue.”

Joan sighed and rolled her eyes. “This isn’t going to solve anything, you know.” Sherlock made no reply. “Do you want to go do something today? Get your mind off of... things?”

He looked at her out of the corner of his eye, unable to hold back curiosity at what she had in mind. “Do what, exactly?”

“Well, I was thinking maybe you could show me around London,” Joan suggested lightly. Sherlock heaved a great, put-upon sigh.

“You want to play _tourist?_ And you expected I’d like to come along?” he asked incredulously, “I would rather remove my own eyes with a melon baller. I would rather spend the day hung upside down by my ankles. I would rather-”

“Give Mycroft a hug?” Joan interrupted. 

Sherlock managed not to show his amusement. “I wouldn’t go that far.”

“I’m hurt that you’d think so little of me,” Joan said. “I know you don’t want to go ride on a double decker bus or see the Tower of London-”

“The really gruesome torture never even took place _there._ ”

“-Or look at a bunch of wax figures at Madame Tussauds. I was going to suggest that you take me where _you_ think the significant places in London are. Maybe the locations of some of your favourite cases?”

Sherlock was startled by Joan’s thoughtfulness, and gave her an appraising look. He could definitely understand why his counterpart appreciated her company, though he himself preferred his own John. “You realise that many of my ‘favourite places’ in London aren’t very... glamourous?”

“That’s why I’m wearing sensible boots,” Joan said matter-of-factly, kicking out her foot and pointing to it. Sherlock wasn’t sure if trading in a 13 cm stiletto for a 10 cm wedge counted as “sensible”, but that really wasn’t an argument he had any interest in getting into at the moment. 

He paused for a moment, pretending to consider the offer despite having already made up his mind; he didn't want to seem over-eager, after all . Eventually, he shrugged, and moved to get off of the sofa. "Very well, we shall go and 'play tourists'. But don't blame me if you ruin your shoes. The prime body dump sites along the Thames tend to be particularly muddy this time of year." He turned towards his room, intent on donning some actual clothing, but still managed to catch a glimpse of the fond look Joan sent in his direction. Perhaps the day would turn out not to be _completely_ horrendous after all.


End file.
